


The Selkie's Song

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Merlock, Selkies, dark merlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 63,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has grown up hearing tales about the ocean, and what lurks just beneath its surface. As a child, he had even dared to believe them. Yet that was a long time ago, and John's belief in faerie tales have long since faded since he joined the war. Real life has gotten in the way, and slowly, the memories of searching for tide-pools on the beach are replaced with his sister's alcoholism, war wounds, and his parent's constant fighting. However, when John Watson has to make a trip back to his Gradmother's cottage and return to the edge of the sea, he finds more than just the ocean awaiting for his return....</p><p>With a promise long forgotten, a rather demanding and compelling creature appears and demands its payment in full.<br/>And John Watson finds he might not be able to resist its song after all....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface- The Cottage

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had this idea wriggling about in my head now for quite a while. :) Originally, this song is what gave me the idea for the tale:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGT5lBve_v4
> 
> It's a beautiful song, and since my family is both Scottish and Irish, I grew up with a lot of stories about Selkies and other mythological creatures. I wanted to write a mer!Lock that had some of my own heritage tied in. So, I hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> Much thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). for editing! :3

 

_And he had ta'en a purse of gold,_

_And he had placed it upon her knee,_ _Saying:_

_"Give it to my little young son,_

_And take thee up they nurse's fee."_

_And it shall come to pass on a summer's day,_

_When the sun shines bright on every stane,_

_I'll come and fetch my little son,_ _and teach him how to swim the faem._ **_\- A S_** _ **elkie** _ **_Song_ **

 

_Don't trust them._

  
That was the first thing he learned as a pup, the first sentence he understood.

_Don't trust the ones who walk on land._

The Mother's sang the warning to their pups, even while dragging one of  _them_ under, pulling them down into the depths even as they thrashed and fought and struggled.

_Never trust them._

  
They would croon, even while their lullabies drew them near. 

He grew up fearing even as he craved,  _ **The Calling**_ pulling at his very core, at his very existence. 

The craving.

The need.

It filled him sang to him even as he learned the haunting melodies, the tunes that flowed from his mouth, uniquely his.

_Sing with me... Come with me… Don't be shy… Let me show you the way…_

 

He would watch those bodies kick and flail, unable to breathe when he so easily could, lean towards their life source and energy, slowly slipping away into the water. He thought he could taste it, if he only got close enough.

Yet no one shared their kills, and he was too small yet to hunt. 

So he watched and waited, and patiently learned.

And resolved himself to taste one of _their_ delicious screams on his own lips as soon as he possibly could.

   
****

 

The sand when it was kicked up by the car's tyres looked like faeries dancing. At least, this was what John thought as he looked warily out the window, clutching the velveteen middle of his stuffed hedgehog. Beside him, Harry snored softly, her neck no doubt being chafed by the seatbelt as she lay half-curled in the back seat of the car beside him. Her feet were digging into her little brother's kidney, but John didn't dare complain. If he woke her, he knew his parents would be annoyed. Already they were stressed from the long drive, and the eight-year old could tell by the way his father's knuckles clenched tightly about the steering wheel and how his mother stared resolutely out the window and sighed. Another argument, more shouting. More half-hearted accusations that John didn't wholly understand but knew were bad as they made his stomach twist in knots and his hands clench.

 

He didn't know why they always decided to go to Grandmother's even when it made his mum and dad fight, only that the end result was always the same every year. He didn't know why they decided every year to go by car either, when it would be much easier to go by plane. John didn't know why every summer he cautiously told himself that this time would be different, that the ride wouldn't be so stressful.

 

_Oh well._

 

He thought to himself with a small sigh.

 

_At least I'll get to see Grandma._

 

As he rolled down the window, he could already taste it. The salty brine of sea air that signalled their approach to Lispole, Ireland. In the distance, lush green hills rolled on for miles, the grass dotted with wild flowers in the height of their bloom. John inhaled their scent deeply, eyes fluttering closed as the heady perfume mingled with the coarse smell of the sea. If he strained, he could hear just under the beaten tape playing from the radio the faint crash of waves striking rock, the rhythmic pounding pulsing like a heartbeat and mingling with the last strains of  _Hey Jude._

 

It was beautiful, and he wondered even as he tucked his knee against his chin in thought if Grandma would have a new story for him. She almost always had another tale, and John could picture her warm face in his mind's eye. How those gnarled hands would gesture and weave a fantastic story in her sweet brogue, or how her dark-green eyes would shimmer when she'd stoke the fireplace. Her words seemed to come from the land itself around her, old legends as ingrained in her culture as the lines about her eyes. Grandma had a nice laugh, rich and warm, the kind that was impossible not to laugh along with.

 

The memory of it made John smile slightly, sitting up to look impatiently outside.

He hoped that this holiday would be fun, and at the very least if it wasn't there was still the fact that his Grandma's cottage was perched right next to the beach.

 

The promise of the soft waves called his name for the entirety of the trip, leaving little John Watson dreaming happily of swimming and sea-shell hunting.

 

****

The cottage stood like a solitary guardian to the beach it rested upon, its stilted and wooden support beams providing an overhanging that both Harry and John often enjoyed hanging under while watching the rain. Its dilapidated roof was a faded but cheery twilight-blue-grey, and as the car pulled into the beaten driveway John could already see the door was held wide open for them. His grandma stood leaning against the bannister of the steps up to the cottage, small frame appeared dwarfed by the oversized shawl that was draped over her shoulders. Her long, silver-white hair was tied back in a long braid, and her freckled face scrunched into a grin of delight as John wasted no time unbuckling his seatbelt. He leapt out of the back seat and landed on the pebbly beach with ease, hearing the soft crunch of sand underfoot as he bolted forward full tilt to give his grandma a hug. She met him halfway, crouching down to his height to wrap him into a warm embrace. John giggled as she pressed a kiss to his ear, her rich voice joining in on his laughter before she greeted him.

 

“My little Johnny! I've missed you! Look how much you've grown since I've last seen you…” The crashing of the waves muted some of her assessing murmurs as she held the boy out at arms-length, inspecting him closely with a sharp blue-eyed gaze that made John feel as if every thought he ever had was being laid bare before him. A tanned hand reached forward to tip his chin up slightly, and the expression softened into something gentler as she returned to holding him close.

 

“A strong young man you'll be I'm sure. Already you have your grandfather's kind of smile.”

From Grandma, that was not a compliment to be taken lightly. John flushed, grinning before trying to tug the woman's hand excitedly towards the rest of the family. The other Watsons were far calmer upon exiting the car. Harry yawned sleepily as she leaned against the boot, her diary in hand as she checked in vain for the pens she had brought with her on the trip. She scowled when she found none. John's parents both were stretching the stiffness out of their limbs, his dad already going towards the boot of the car to search for their bags. John's mother looked towards Grandma fondly, a small smile on her lips as she came forward and gave her own Mum a brief but meaningful hug.

 

“It's been far too long, Merina,” Grandma chided softly, stroking her daughter's strawberry-blonde hair before reaching to take John's hand. The little boy watched as his mother sighed, rubbing at her tired eyes once before putting on a small, rueful smile.

 

“We always come back here, though, don't we?”

Merina looked out towards the beach as she spoke, eyes tracking the waves as they crashed to shore. The waters at this time of evening looked brackish and dark, mysterious and edged with silver and red as the sun's last dying rays faded away. Like a jar of coins the water glittered, and John listened to the rhythmic pounding and found himself picturing his mum as a little girl, playing on the beach.

 

“You know you're welcome here any time, ” Grandma murmured quietly, too quiet for John to really take notice. He did not see how Merina's fingers tightened about her arms as she crossed them over her chest. Her gaze flicked for a moment towards her husband. The salted breeze pulled at tendrils of her hair, making her seem like a wisp about to be tugged away to the wind. Mr Watson's grunts of strain as he tugged the luggage one by one out from the boot of the car were muffled by the ocean, but his cursing could not be. Eva looked at her daughter carefully, noting the lines of stress about her mouth, far too deep for someone so young. When John's mum looked back to them, the expression was gone, replaced with false cheer.

 

“I know. That's why we came…”

 

Grandma nodded tersely, not touching on the matter again before she turned her attention back to her grandson.

Though it was summer the evenings were still a little chilly, and John shivered slightly before turning away to look at his grandma with large, greedy eyes. The blue in them appeared bluer, filled with barely-suppressed excitement.

 

“Grandma! Do you have a story? Please? _Pleeeeeaaaaaseee-_ ”

 

“John-” his mum began to snap, patience having worn thin, but she stopped when grandma chuckled lightly. Her Irish brogue sounded impish as she grinned down at her grandson, a wide smile tugging at her lips.

 

“Why, of course, I do! D'you think I've just been sittin' here all this time, twiddling my thumbs when I knew you were coming? Tonight's story is going to be better than all the others, and d'you want to know _why_?”

 

John nodded impatiently, holding his breath in anticipation. Grandma's eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Because _this_ story, Johnny, is _true._ ”

 

His mother rolled her eyes, a patient laugh piercing the air.

“Don't tell me you're going to tell him _that_ old wives' tale-”

 

“Hush now, Merina, the boy's allowed t' have some dreams still.” Grandma brushed off her disapproval like she was shedding water from her skin, steering John already towards the house. She babbled happily about fantastical creatures such as Dragons and the Fae, whispering imaginative descriptions of beauty and mystery into her grandson's eager ears even while guiding him inside. Merina looked on and shook her head, a small frustrated smile gracing her features before it slipped as her husband came to stand beside her. Harry was still checking her phone, and Mrs Watson's voice was too low for her daughter to overhear as she muttered.

 

“Those two are going to be dangerous together. She always fills his head with such meaningless tales. He's getting older, I hope he doesn't take them so seriously any more. Last time she told him about the elves that live in people's gardens, and he spent the entire week digging up my flowers in search of them.”

 

Her husband hesitantly rested a hand on her shoulder, their emotions still strained. At first she resisted, wanting to draw away. However, after a moment a small sigh escaped the woman's lips and she leaned into his touch. Her blue-green eyes fluttered closed in silent contemplation before opening again to look up into her husband's face, quietly searching for an answer in the lines of his skin that she couldn't seem to quite reach. He regarded her in much the same way, dark irises softening in apology for their previous argument.

“Let him have a bit of childhood still, love. He's only eight, and soon we'll be moving out of our house.  John's going to feel isolated for a while. Let him have some fun while it lasts.”

 

Merina instinctively looked towards Harry, who was still slouched against the boot of the car. She had refused to talk to either of them all summer, her expression stormy as she looked out on the dark waters. Mrs Watson sighed at her daughter's figure, wishing she hadn't been the one to put such a sour expression on the young teenager's face. Looking small and lost, Harry's chin was a firm, solid line that refused to tremble as she felt her parent's gaze on her, her stare not lifting from the small diary she kept clutched in her hands.

 

At the moment, she hated them.

 

At the moment, Merina was not overly fond of herself either.

  

John's shout of delight from inside the cabin drew all their thoughts away from troubles back home as the little boy discovered his grandma had baked a cake for their arrival. Reluctantly, all three Watsons let a small smile grace their features at the joyful sound.

 

They did not notice the whispering brush of leonine skin sliding seamlessly through the water, nor did they notice the whiskered face peering once over the wet-slicked rocks down by the shore. Nothing but water could be seen when Merina looked back towards the sea, but she shivered as she thought she heard the dying echoes of a song she almost knew drift far away.

 

_Come with me… Swim with me… Love the sea…_

 

The rest of the Watson family made their way into the tiny cabin, oblivious to the haunting tune that bubbled just under the water's surface. Deaf to the packs of sleet-grey bodies undulating underneath the surface, singing a song only their ears could hear. Calling one another as they made their way deeper into the waters.


	2. Bedtime Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wohoo, first real chapter up for this story! :3 Hope you all enjoy! :D
> 
> Many thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) For the lovely beta-ing she does. :3
> 
> it is appreciated!

 

_His hand touched mine, and for a moment he was_

_True. The wind came and blew him away,_

_A piece of dry paper, ink already fading the_

_Promises he'd made. And I slipped into my skin,_

_Went to the sea, felt her embrace,_

_And dove under again. **~ Part Thee Of Me, by Beth Winegarner**_

 

 

John liked to imagine that his grandmother's cottage was a pirate ship. An ageless thing, it creaked arthritically when the wind blew against it, much like its owner in that respect. The young boy could hear the sea whistling in the very hardwood, and he chased after it with padded sock feet as he searched the house for buried treasure of all sizes and shapes.

 

The boy's grandma didn't mind it at all when he took down the large oil-painting from the wall, placing it in the large, empty green chest proudly alongside the other knick-knacks he had coalesced together. Little things, a jar of shoe polish, one of his mother's bracelets that he had nicked from her luggage already, his sister's hairbrush. Things only deemed valuable to a child, but John picked each piece of treasure carefully, thought put into each and every item. He was the captain of his ship, and he wasn't about to let even the roguest of pirates (namely Harry) or the fiercest storm keep him from setting sail. It was in this way he entertained himself quietly until dinner, the smell of warm mashed potatoes and ham drifting from the kitchen and sending John's stomach to growling even as he ran to wash up before eating.

 

During dinner, Grandma cheerily bore the brunt of the conversation, engaging everyone out from the privacy of eating their meals in order to get the family interacting. Harry scowled a lot when asked about school, but she was surprisingly candid and not sarcastic with her retorts. The truth was most of the Watsons had a rather big soft spot for the old woman, and indulged her familial values with astonishing patience if not strained grace.

John tried to ease some of the tension forming between his parents the longer the conversation fell flat, wiggling in his chair slightly as he looked to his grandma with wide blue eyes the colour of sea glass smoothed by water.

“Have you seen any seals yet? Have they started migrating?”

He used the word he had learned from his picture book on animals back home proudly, smiling when Grandma's wrinkled cheeks turned upwards in a small smile that was worth its weight in gold.

“Not yet, it's a bit early still since the colder waters won't come fer a while. They've still got _pups_ t' look after.”

She leaned forward, white hair glinting in the kitchen lights like soft silver.

“If yer lucky you can sometimes see them teachin' their youngin's how t' swim, and they like t' sunbathe on the rocks out by the cove in the afternoons. It's nearing evenin', so there might not be many around if you go after dinner, but there's plenty of shells and pretty things to take home.”

 

John brightened, even when his mum fidgeted slightly in her chair and coughed.

“Is it safe in those rocks for him? I mean, anything could happen if he goes on his own. I don't much like the idea of him slipping and hurting himself and not being able to get help in the dark.”

Her son deflated a bit at that, but his grandma merely scoffed and muttered something under her breath about _'Coddling children these days.'_

“Make no mistake, he's not just a mere Watson. He also has _my_ blood, the McNeil side. With a bit of Scot and Irishman in 'em, the boy could practically _walk_ on the sea and the waves would kneel to 'em.”

Then she winked at John, and the boy giggled and pictured himself skimming the waters, hands touching each lapping wave as he coasted without a care in the world. Harry ruined the image somewhat by snorting into her plate of potatoes.

 

“Yeah, right. Chances are he'd drown in a puddle before he even made it to the inside of the cove.”

John sat up indignantly, cheeks tinging pink as he hotly replied.

“Would _not_ , I can swim just _fine._ ”

His older sister smirked, the look dangerous and wicked. She stuck out her tongue at him, blowing a raspberry.

“Bet you still need water wings!”

She grinned when John made as if to flick ham at her, giggling, only falling silent when their mum's sharp tone cut over their din.

 

“ _Harry._ That's enough now. Mum, I don't want you encouraging his stubborn streak. He'll climb a mountain before he admits he needs help.”

John watched as his older sister's lip curled in annoyance, but she was cowed into enough obedience to turn to her vegetables and pick at them distantly. Grandma however, did not look so easily convinced. She shot John a conspiratorial look that invalidated her cheery tone as she appeased her daughter, reaching for the glass jug of lemonade on the table. The glint of its light-pink hue seemed to match her bubbly tone.

Overly sweet.

“Of course, dear. Not tonight then.” The silent _but definitely later_ could be read into it even by John. The old woman sipped at her drink daintily before continuing.

“However I _do_ believe I promised him a story, and I never go back on my word.”

Grinning, the little boy hastily worked at finishing his plate, mind already spinning with the possibilities of what tale would reach his ears and fill his imagination with life this time.

****

His grandma had a voice for storytelling, as rich and rolling as the sea. It crested and crashed into the worlds she created and plucked from the air, a spider weaving elegant silken threads to glisten in the morning sunlight that was John's imagination. Each pearly drop shimmered before tumbling back to reality. A soap bubble, intangible and beautiful, translucent and yet a thousand different colours.

They sat curled in front of the fire, John having one of the huge, ugly patchwork quilts his grandmother knit wrapped around his skinny shoulders like a cocoon. He sat on the rug cross-legged by her feet, the old woman creaking in her rocking chair as she stared into the hissing and crackling flames. The little boy's toes wriggled in their striped socks as he watched the licking fire dance its way across the warm wood, the sound loud in the silence as Harry was in her room and John's parents had decided to take a walk on the beach. In the dimmed room, John thought his grandma looked somewhat mysterious as she spoke, her eyes shadowed in darkness as she murmured to him in her soft Irish brogue.

 

 

“A long time ago, John, my mum told me 'bout the tales she used t' hear her father tell her. Stories from a fisherman's mouth, tried and true from long months adrift in the waves. He told her 'bout what he saw, coastin' in the waters when the ocean turned red with sunset, or in the darkness of night with only the stars casting their glow. He used t' tell me about the strange creature's livin' deep beneath the waves, fish so large that they looked like whales but weren't, shrimp that glowed in the dark like fireflies. But the tales I heard the most of were the tales he spoke of when he told me about me mum.”

She paused for effect, seeing in satisfaction that John's eyes were as wide as moons as he clutched the edges of the blanket about his chin. His tanned face was illuminated by the fire, and his eyes glowed blue-black in the dark as he hardly dared to breathe. Satisfied that she had caught his attention, his grandma began. 

 

“My father grew up off th' coast not too far from here. Used t' watch the fishin' boats drift in, lazy an' sweet. Him and his two brothers, both older than him by two an' four years. They helped their father repair his boats an' nets, an' I remember to this day that if you ran yer fingers over my dad's hands, you could feel every knot he ever tied imprinted in his flesh. He worked long an' hard summers fixin' em, an' it was when he was nearin' eighteen that one night on the moor he caught sight of somethin' that would forever haunt him still.”

 

“What did he see?” John piped up, listening to the sound of the wind blowing outside. It moaned like a distant spectre, sending shivers of excitement up his spine as his grandma's eyes glittered like twin jades. She smiled mysteriously.

“It wasn't just what he saw, it's what he _heard._ ”

And her voice dropped to a croon, almost a song as she sighed like the sound of a tide drawing in.

“Beautiful music, the strangest he had ever listened to. No words but just sound, and yet so beautifully achin' that it squeezed his heart inside his chest and left him still as stone on the dock. Sleek, dark bodies slipping under the waves, cryin' the most mournful song you ever could hear.”

 

 

John could picture it in his mind's eye. A foggy night, where mist reflected off of silvery skin in the water. A lullaby just out of reach drifting in his ears. He blinked, thinking he could almost see the shapeless forms dancing in the firelight, fins kicking the flames as if they were waves.

“ _Selkies_ ,” his grandma murmured softly, the words rolling off her tongue effortlessly as she called her grandson back to the tale.

“He'd later find out their name. Selkies. Beautiful creatures, the sirens of the deep. Disguised in the coats they wear over their skin. They look like seals in th' day, but at night they swim t' shore. He saw them, in the moonlight that evenin'. Dancin' on the beach in the distance, laughin' and singin' their strange alluring song. Especially one figure in particular, the one who noticed him starin'.”

His grandma's eyes were far away, dreaming and soft.

“Her skin was pale as moonlight, her hair dark and long and curling like a storm. She had eyes the colour of the stormiest night, and her song was like the sound of a flute. It called him, John, even then, me father couldn't resist.”

“Who was she?”

“She was the fairest of the maidens, all soft and silk, an' she was frightfully clever. She caught him starin' and decided to scare him, just to see if he'd jump. He did, an' screamed like a right little one.”

 

John laughed, delighted at the image. In response his grandma grinned.

“What was her name?”

He asked, and to which the old woman hummed and answered warmly.

“She called herself Fiona.”

John frowned slightly, his pale brows lowering in realisation.

“But… that was your mum's name…”

And his grandma leaned forward, hands folded in her lap as her teeth flashed brightly in a grin.

“And that, my dear John, is where this tale truly _begins_.”

****

The moon was full in the sky, swollen and pregnant with light that shone down on the blackened waves like reflective mirrors dancing along the water. Breaking the calm pools that filled the darkened cove by the sand of the beach, silvery bodies swam to shore. Their calls barked softly into the warm air of summer, calling their pups to follow them and leading them with gentle nudges and notes of song that drifted above them. He swam after his brother, body twisting lithely, smaller than the others but not by very much any more. It would still be a while until he was grown, but his coat was no longer soft and downy. It was losing its cotton-like appearance. Like the other pups his age, he celebrated his growth by ducking and twisting through his pod.

His family.

They waded towards land when the shallows became too low to swim. Shedding their disguises like nothing more than cloaks. Rounded figures became hard and angular, long limbs rising to their feet and stalking in the dark towards the bone-white shore. Smaller figures held the hands of taller ones, their feet unsteady and unused to the solidness of land. Children whose eyes shone like twin jewels, winking with each blink as they looked about and for the first time felt their toes become one with the sand.

Sherlock was the only one that ran.

It was a clumsy, half-flailing thing, but he couldn't help but revel in the new form he was given by light of the full moon. His dark curls atop his head bounced, pale bare skin milky white and ghostly as he charged free from his brother's grip. Chastising calls snarled after him, but the pup ignored the adult's scolding in favour of getting the hang of his new limbs. He stared at them as he kicked the waves, clear droplets glittering on his bare skin. The other children watched him and did the same, chattering to each other in their clicking tongue and fingertips exploring the expanse of their own shoulders and arms.

He tasted the salt air, duller on this tongue, and yet cool as it raised bumps along his skin. He could feel fine hairs rise on the back of his neck, even as he made it to the hollow of the cove and knelt to touch the grains of sand and scoop them up for inspection. His eyesight, much better in the dark than that of a Human's, watched the grains weave and sift through his fingers for a moment before his attention was pulled in another direction. Shells littered the sand, creatures of his home long since died, their outsides smoothed by the ocean and left beautiful and strange. He picked up a shell inquisitively, burbling noises muttering from his lips as he rubbed its polished surface. Experimentally, he blew against it, and a sound both loud and alien emerged from its depths and he clicked and chattered in excitement. The other pups soon also made it to shore, and they made the most of this play date to explore their new forms and to inspect the land they had so often been warned away from.

It was their half-year, a birthday of sorts for the pups, and so this was their gift.

He planned to make the most of it.

 

Standing, he discovered he was better at walking already than the others. He would never tell them it was because he snuck away sometimes from the rookery and _watched_ , cataloguing _their_ lithe forms and how they moved. He swung his arms experimentally as he loped a little out of the shadow of the cove, the cave-like rock not interesting him enough, the sharp rocks ahead instead drawing him near. He was pleased to note that it made movement easier, crouching on the sea-stained outcropping to look at the tide-pools that formed in the dips of stone.

Night creature's swam there, little prawns scuttling, tiny fish that glowed in the dark. A crab, cranky and unsociable, despite Sherlock's engaging invite for conversation. Feeling like he was shunned simply because he was younger and thus deemed unimportant by the sea creature, the pup huffed and made his way onward.

More and more, he drew away from his pod.

His brother calling his name barely even registered with him.

“ _Sherl'ck_!”

The clicking syllable in his name coming out strange in a Human-shaped mouth, sounding like _Sherlock._ The pup raised his head defiantly, feeling his new features settle into an unpleasant expression as he glared at the red-haired young man glowering at him from the edge of the beach. He was tall, taller than most of the others, and the rest of the pod turned at the sound of his voice. Sherlock hated it, the way he could command a presence so effortlessly while the pup struggled even to be heard.

The rest of his pod called to him, using his title, _little prince, little prince._

“ _kach'nda, kach'nda.”_

For a moment, he debated climbing just one more stone.

If he had, he might have seen in the distance the warm glow of a cottage burning brightly.

However, after a second he sighed, slipping back down onto the sand, returning to his people sulkily even as his mind still explored far and wide.

His mournful song mingled with the others as they danced far into the night, the other children laughing and sighing and playing tag along the beach while the adults kept wary watch for any sign of danger. Conversation, sounding like the clicking chatter of dolphins was exchanged. He sang to himself mostly, tucked away in a corner of the dark cove even as he stared at the moon. He found himself a piece of driftwood, a stick and traced the shape of the shell until the sun drove them back into the safety of the waves.

And John, much later in the evening and sleepier from a cup of warm milk and grandma's stories, thought he dreamt of a whispered voice like the shudder of wings right by his ear.

_Come with me… love the sea… don't be shy… what is beyond its waves? Its rippling sound, trembling, trembling I sigh…_


	3. The Song Of Seals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we go! :P This took longer than I wanted it to for me to update, but it's finally here and I'm happy with it. Next chapter will be the meeting between Sherlock and John!  
> :3
> 
> Thanks so much so far for all the lovely kudos/comments!!! :D

_My name is forever here, never spoken and always asked  
_

_My belly is against these stones,  
_

_The cold water sliding off my back.  
_

_My heart races with the advancing fog; I linger  
_

_As another boat is shipwrecked  
_

_In the tide. **~ Part Thee Of Me, by Beth Winegarner**_

 

 

 

The ocean's roar was something that could drown out much from curious children's ears late at night, even the sound of their parents return. Though Harry was still awake, she could only make out the shadows of their silhouettes as they came crashing through the front door. They flickered across the hallway from where she lay in her bed, the sharp angry gestures following muffled angry words. Wordlessly she turned away from it, curling to press her face against the worn papers crinkled next to her hands. Love letters from a girl many miles away, a good friend.

 

Someday hopefully, more than that.

 

John slept on, unaware of the sounds of his parents fighting. His dreams were filled with the crash of the tide, drowning out the accusations that played out in the dark.

 

_You're drunk again._

 

_**I just lost my job, I think I have a right to drink!** _

 

_You lost it because you're always drunk!_

 

_**At least I'm not always sleeping with the first person to flash them a smile -** _

 

A sharp smack, ringing throughout the house.

 

John rolled over in his sleep, blonde brows furrowing in slight discomfort.

In his dream, the waves shattered into particles that shimmered like stardust. From them, something curled protectively about his waist, phantom hands pulling on his arms. A warm set of lips pressed against his ear. They whispered soft words.

 

_Freedom._

_There is freedom in the sea._

 

****

The morning was filled with the warmth of a promising summer day, filtering through the bedroom curtains as John woke with a happy yawn and stretch that came only from letting one's body wake on its own time. He had never been an early riser, though he knew that one day when he became a fire-fighter or a soldier he would have to become one (because John planned on helping people and those jobs seemed equally heroic and cool). Lingering in his blankets a moment longer, the little boy inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of bacon cooking in a pan. John licked his lips, stomach growling in want. He rose clutching his velveteen hedgehog to his cheek, too old to go out in public with it and too young to quite give the stuffed animal up.

 

In the kitchen, his grandmother stood barefoot on the creaking floor, chopping up pieces of onion to put in the massive skillet on the stove. The sharp silver of the knife flashed as she cut, a delicate dance on the cutting board as she looked up and smiled at her grandson with a wide, sweet grin.

“You want a big breakfast so you can go out all day and do some exploring?”

 

John nodded enthusiastically, hair sticking up like duck-fluff from sleep even as he pulled up one of the stools around the table. Small hands reaching for the jug of orange juice, he took a deep breath and tasted the flavour of salt. He could barely sit still as he worked through his eggs, the cheesy centre creating messy strings about his lips as his grandmother laughed at his enthusiasm.

 

He could not wait to see the world his grandma told him about in real life.

 

****

Of course, nothing could go as planned. John soon realised that his grandmother was actually quite well-known throughout the small village, as there came a knocking on her door only a little after Harry had finally roused herself from bed. She ate breakfast rather sullenly as John sat and folded pieces of construction card into paper planes, making noises as they flew high into the living room.

 

Sitting on the carpet cross-legged, John watched as his grandma rose from her tired rocking chair to get the door, a man that the young boy had never seen before greeting them on the other side.

He was as tall and spindly as a tree, a shock of red-brown hair coming to fall in sweeping sort of bangs that just half-covered his eyes. His jaw had the faint ginger tinge of a beard coming in, and he held the hand of a small, slightly chubby little boy with big glasses and darker hair. John was soon introduced to Mr Sean Stamford and his nephew, Mike. The pale, moon-faced boy that smiled at John seemed friendly, and he grinned back before he could stop himself.

 

Mike and John soon found themselves playing with the paper planes together, ignoring the adult conversation that was happening in terse whispers at the door. Harry however was paying attention, eyes narrowing as she listened in interest.

 

Mr Stamford's voice was low and rough. Stressed. Thumbprint-like bruises purpled his eyelids.

“He's getting worse.”

Tightening of lips. Hands clenching. Tension in the tone of voice. Harry buttered herself a piece of toast absently, eyes glued to her grandmother's form. The old woman stiffened slightly, blue eyes clouding  in regret as she murmured

 

“I'm sorry. There is only so much that my skills can do -”

 

“I know.”

 

Sean murmured, biting his lip and looking away sadly. His eyes were dulled by grief.

“I know,” he repeated softly, the shadow of the doorway hiding the twist of his features. Those eyes flicked to the little boy sitting on the carpet, making plane noises with John.

“I just… I don't know how to tell him… He won't know how to handle it…”

Something murmured, too soft for even the teenager to hear. She saw her grandmother rest a hand on the tired man's shoulder. Harry thought her grandmother's voice could be soft as wool, when it suited her.

 

“… Leave it for today… it is too lovely a mornin' to ruin it with ill news.”

 

She then turned to her grandson and his new-found friend, a smile plastered on the old woman's lips. Harry looked away from it, eating the last spoonful of her eggs.

 

“John, how would you and Mike like to go explore that cove I told ya 'bout??”

 

****

 

The beach was warm under their shoes as they trekked, the sand heated by the sun and warming the backs of their necks as the two boys climbed over rock and stone. John led the way, carrying a plastic shovel and pail in one hand even as he went with Mike along the shore, their feet licked at by the pulsing waves as they danced on the edge of wet and dry. They were two tanned bodies warmed with excitement and energy, and they played in the waves, their laughter drifting high into the air like a song.

 

Mike was a shy boy, but he soon warmed to John, as it was very difficult to not like someone with such a bright smile. Soon the two began chatting, telling each other about their homes. John told Mike about his school and his mean older sister, and Mike talked about his older brother, who looked after him since their parents had been hit in a car crash last year.

 

“Hal works lots since he's a lot older than me, but he really does his best. He makes me sandwiches all the time for school and helps me with maths, since I'm rubbish at them.”

Mike adjusted his rounded spectacles, grinning proudly. His soft face flushed with happiness. It was clear to John that unlike he and Harry, Mike and Hal got along really well. He wondered what it was like, to get along with a sibling so much that they were like a best friend. He tried to picture it with his older sister, and his nose wrinkled in immediate distaste.

Mike continued on, oblivious to his friend's doubts.

 

“We're visiting Uncle Sean right now 'cause Hal's sick, but he says he'll get better. I hope we can go home soon though, I miss my friends…”

 

“Well, you’ve got me, don't you?” John retorted, grin stretching on his face in an attempt to cheer up the boy. He pointed towards the ocean, the sparkling water holding deep secrets.

“And Grandma says whenever we feel alone the ocean will talk to us, if we only listen.”

 

Mike's blue eyes were dubious, clouded with scepticism.

“Do you really believe that?”

 

John looked at him solemnly, dark eyes filled with certain trust.

“I believe in my family.”

Because really, who else could a small boy trust but the people who made his sun and earth spin on its axis? And who was Mike to question it, as his own doubt faded from his mind like a distant song ending.

And in their companionable silence, John thought he heard a whisper, coming from the distant shoals.

 

_Such a beautiful day… Love the sea… Sing with me…_

 

****

They came to the rock face they would have to climb to reach the cove, sharp and jagged edges rising high into the sky like a mountain they had to pass. Without preamble John leapt up, gripping the first foothold with his sandalled toe and heaving himself upwards. Mike soon followed, not eager to be left behind. They clamoured over the slick stone, giggling to one another light-heartedly until John nearly slipped and came perilously close to cracking his skull open on a rock. Then they treaded with more care.

 

Soon, however, they came to the cove, and both forgot safety once more as they were granted the sight of something awe-inspiring as they hoisted themselves to the top of the rock face.

 

Tanned brown and black bodies lay out in the sun, glittering with water as they bathed on the rocks below. A large cave-like construction led to some place unknown, but between the boys and it were dozens of chestnut-brown seals. They called to one another, their cries harsh and barking, and by their sides were bundles of half-fluffy beings, pups squeaking hungrily. Both John and Mike gasped in delight, trying to get a closer look from their position above. Of course, they didn't dare go closer in case one of the mother seals found them threatening somehow to their young, but they could clearly see each of the little pups as they wriggled about like fuzzy beach balls.

“They're just shedding their coats,” Mike observed, looking at one in particular that was wriggling alongside its mother.

“By winter they'll be big enough to swim on their own and migrate, at least Uncle Sean thinks so.”

 

He muttered in a sort of reverent tone, and John's inner thoughts matched it as he looked at the pod before him. He had never seen a wild animal up close before, at least not one that wasn't strictly place bound. Sure, he had caught glimpses of red-tailed foxes at sunset and peeked at a few squirrels and rabbits, but never had he seen something that looked quite so… _strange._

 

The whiskered creatures were as slick as polished stone, ranging in colour from dark brown to cold grey. Dark brown eyes looked up at the two boys in mild interest, the seals filling the air with curious barks that sounded like a cross between a dog's and an asthmatic old man. They were large animals, bigger than John when fully grown, and yet there was a gentle nature to their faces that made the boy unafraid.

 

Their eyes were dark and deep, the colour of rich chocolate, and they held the upper half of their bodies up with a certain sort of grace. On land they appeared chunky and awkward, but John could see the power in those tails. He knew somehow without even having seen them swim that the seals below would be beautiful and graceful in the water.

 

“Reckon we could catch one?” Mike mumbled absently, to which John laughed and shook his head.

“The adults are too big, and if you tried to take one of their pups they'd murder you. Besides, they're just babies right now, it wouldn't be fair.”

 

The round-faced boy sighed somewhat mournfully but didn't argue. He adjusted his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before he replied

“Still. It'd be cool if you could train one to swim with you and stuff.”

 

John was about to respond in agreement when an echo rang in his ears. It was strange and sweet, and for a moment, he thought he had imagined it. Then it came again, a low and moaning sigh. It came from the cove, from the shadowy darkness of it. Though he couldn't make out the words of it, he could pick out some vague impression of its meaning. Like a lullaby he once knew. His eyes seemed to move against his own will to stare at the entrance to the cove, gaze feeling heavy and lethargic as his own heartbeat began to deafen his ears.

 

_Sea… sigh… Come to play… sea....sigh… Please do stay…_

 

Beautiful music. The prettiest John had ever heard. It pulled at him, tugging in his gut and yanking his own heart out from his ribs. He had to follow. Had to chase after it. He didn't want it to fade. His own limbs felt all too thick and yet paper-thin, like he could break into pieces if he so much as breathed.

Was he breathing?

 

_Breathe my song… sing with me… let me tuck you in and keep you safe…_

 

“Do you hear that?” John whispered, and turned reluctantly when Mike made a small confused sound in the back of his throat. The blonde boy felt as if eyes were glued to the back of his neck, burning him. Claiming.

 

“Hear what?”

 

But the sound was already fading, dying away. John's common sense was returning to him. He shivered, suddenly cold. The dark eyes of the seal's no longer looked quite so friendly. Rather, they were fixed on him in a rather predatory way, their dark pupils glinting in the sun. His heart still pounding in his ribs, John's voice cracked slightly as he spoke.

 

“L-let's get out of here.”

 

He did not explain why, turning without a word back towards home.

 

After a moment, Mike followed.

 

From the shadow of the cove, a pair of green-blue eyes glittered.

Sherlock chittered his annoyance, curled in the shade with his seal skin creating a nest to sit on.

So close.

 

And yet his Song was not yet strong enough to pull the wonderfully vivid life towards him, unable to lure his prey. Running a hand through his dark curls he cursed, tucked into the night of the cave. The sun beat hatefully down on the sand.

A line he could not cross when in this form.


	4. Meetings In The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos this piece has received :3 I hope I can continue to impress! Many thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for her lovely work!
> 
> This is where things get interesting!

_Then she met a hollow soul,_   
_Filled him with her light and was consoled,_   
_She was the moon and he the sun was gold..._   
_Eyes were blinded with his light..._   
_The sun she gave reflected back the night_   
_The moon was waning almost out of sight... Ocean Gypsy of the moon,_   
_The sun has made a thousand nights for you to hold..._   
_Ocean Gypsy where are you?_   
_The shadows followed by the stars have turned to gold... **~Ocean Gypsy by Blackmore's Night**_

 

 

That night after Mike was sent home with his uncle, John found himself to be increasingly distracted. He couldn't quite describe it, his childlike thoughts unable to quite capture the deep pull in his gut. Like a new centre of gravity, a second heartbeat itching under his skin. It was disconcerting, an all-consuming thing, and frequently the young boy found his feet carrying him unconsciously outside without his express permission.

  


He might have been more worried, had he been a little bit older and a little less captivated by the various treasures his grandmother had been saving for his arrival. Her gnarled fingers frequently held out to him all sorts of little shiny things a boy his age delighted in, everything from crab shells to smooth pieces of sea glass worn by the waves they once swam in.

Soon John had made quite a little hoard under his bed, his prize possession a glittering conch the approximate size of his head. Though it hadn't come from any beach near Ireland, his grandmother had told him she had it painted by a wonderful sea witch who had lived on the coastline of a far-off land. Indeed, the shell was painted and jewelled ornately, blues and bright yellows streaked through with little marble-like specks of violet. John could often be found pressing his ear against the Shell's crevice, listening with amusement and awe at distant oceans that rumbled in his mind.

  


Harry, of course, was less than impressed by the gifts her grandmother brought to her. She frowned at the little, chipped shells she was given, scowled at the sea glass John had only a moment ago described as _amazing._ Not even the painted conch could bring her to ogle, and the youngest Watson often found himself wondering if his older sister was really human or some kind of horrid sea-monster in disguise. He made sure to keep a sharp eye out for any suspicious clues, watching carefully to see if Harry did anything a sea monster would do, like eat raw fish or melt in the hot afternoon sun. She did neither, although she _did_ screech at John like a banshee when the little boy tried to tug at her hair to see if it felt like seaweed.

  


Eventually, the strange song that John had heard when he had seen the seals faded from his mind, not disappearing but becoming somehow muted and faint. Bigger issues to handle chased after John, the primary one being that it appeared his parents were fighting. Over what, he didn't know. Yet the cabin seemed to quake with the tension of the two adults, stonily silent whenever the other was in the room.

  


Merina Watson often found herself rubbing at the temples of her forehead, continuously stressed by her children's bickering as well as her husband's stubborn refusal to address the issues she sought to solve. Often she could be found sitting on the front step, moodily clutching at a cup of tea and staring out at the endless ocean waves, remembering her childhood upon the shore below. John soon learned that tea calmed his mum in a way nothing else seemed to, and quickly asked his grandmother to teach him the secret of the kettle and tea leaves. Though he was not allowed to make it on his own lest he set fire to the house of himself, John soon could be seen in the kitchen, watching the water in the kettle boil with large, serious blue eyes.

  


His mother found her son's tea, though sometimes too bitter or too weak, to be strangely therapeutic for her regularly frayed nerves.

  


So, weeks passed without anything really going amiss, save for a general feeling of seething arguments left unsaid and the strange dreams that John had late at night. The ones that made him toss and turn, only to wake in a cold sweat and clutch at the blankets. The ones that left a name lingering as an echo on his lips, only just forgotten. Dreams where the moon hung over the ocean, pregnant and ivory white and turned the entire sea to silver, save for a shadowy figure in the distance. The one that sang as they called to him with outstretched arms, their eyes the only visible part of their features. A beautiful, hungry blue-teal. The one where he couldn't really be sure if it was a dream at all, or if it was always on the edge of a nightmare.

  


Then at the end of the month, news finally broke the monotony of everyday life.

Mike's older brother had passed away.

John almost considered asking if he could visit his friend, if only to attempt to cheer him up.

  


Then his father came home late at night, waking the whole household with his stumbling, heavy footsteps. Then his mum began shouting.

Then John's world seemed to somehow turn as dark and stormy as a hurricane.

 

****

“ _You never listen!”_

His mum shrieked, seeming not to notice John's huddled form at the foot of the stairs. He had been woken by the crash, by the shattered pieces of china that lay scattered on the floor of the kitchen, dangerously close to bare feet. It had knocked him out his dreams, pulling him towards reality downstairs. His sleepy brain was clouded and confused. _Why_ were Mum and Dad fighting? _Why_ were they shouting? His bare toes curled around the lip of the step, his hands half over his ears as his father's familiar voice roared over the rain that fell steadily outside.

 

“ _Well you never shut up!”_

 

Angry words, words John knew he wasn't supposed to know the meaning of and yet did.

 

“ _It's always about what_ _ **I'm**_ _doing wrong, what_ _ **I'm**_ _not doing for this family and I'm sick of it! Get a job yourself if you're so concerned!”_

 

“ _I have to look after the children!”_

 

His mum's voice hissed like the rattle of lightning against the window pane, and for a moment John saw her figure, illuminated by the flash of light outside. His mother's eyes were wild, hair frizzed with sleep. She stood in her nightgown like a ghost. In contrast his father towered over her, and yet John found himself more afraid of his mum's cold fury. He bit his lip, flinching at the next words thrown, sharp and cutting as rose thorns.

 

“ _And who's fault is that?! It's not like you have to stay home for them! You never even wanted any-”_

 

A hand came to rest on John's shoulder, the boy flinching away with a startled cry only to find Harry's sweaty palm clamped over his mouth. Her eyes were bright in the shadow of the dark, filled with a kind of grim sadness as she leaned down and tried to bodily tug her little brother away from the foot of the stairs. Her voice was breathy and softer than he had ever heard it before, right by his ear.

“C'mon, Johnny. You can't do anything about this. Just go back to bed. Come now, I'll tuck you in…”

  


John however found himself fighting her grip, unwilling to be pulled away. He could taste the danger in the air, thick and copper-tasting on the roof of his mouth. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he felt an instinctive urge to run, to clutch at his father's hand and his mother's gown and to cry against them like he was a little kid. Like he was five instead of older.

He didn't want to leave them alone, not on a night like this.

  


Not when the very weather threatened to break the walls of the cabin, its ancient wood creaking and screaming in protest. Not when his mother was trembling like a leaf, and his father wore an expression like he had just been punched in the stomach.

  


Not when everything was wrong.

Yet the next words were not what John had been expecting to hear his mum reply with, and they made him sway on the spot like a ship capsized as he watched her slump in defeat.

  


“You're right. It was never my plan to have kids…” Harry's grip tightened on John's arm, but the little boy needn't have had the support. He was stone still, eyes wide as the very person he had thought would always want him admitted to having not _wanted_ him before. His own heartbeat pounded in his ears, and his older sister sighed through her teeth and tried in vain to get him to move back towards their room.

  


John refused to be budged, blue eyes filling with tears even as he fought them, fought against the overwhelming feeling of panic. His mother carried on, oblivious to her children who hid just outside the hall.

  


“It was never my plan… You never wanted them, and I… I liked to work… I still do. It was never –”

Then she broke off, seeming at a lost for words. Finally, John could take it no longer.

  


He tore his arm out from Harry's grip, sobs racking his body as he came to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. His dad was facing him, a bottle of drink in his hand. He stilled, went pale when he saw the small blonde silhouette of his son. At the change of his expression, Merina turned. Her lips parted in surprise, but already John was bolting, running as fast as he could towards the front door. In his mind was an image that burned, one that filled his head and made it pound with betrayal.

His mother had tears streaming down her cheeks.

Tears of regret over _him._

  


Vaguely, he heard his name being called behind him. Footsteps chasing after him even as he ran out the door, nearly bowled over by the howling wind that tugged at his clothes and hair. Still he managed to keep upright, stumbling more than running down the steps and tearing for the darkness. He could hear his sister screaming, his dad shouting after him, but John knew he was faster than them, faster than most boys his age.

  


He lithely sprang into the brush, climbing over the sharp steeple of stones that divided the beach from the cove. His hands cut into the unforgiving stone and bled, but he barely noticed. He had to get away. Had to leave the shouting and the breaking and the voices that screamed he was _unwanted_ behind. There was no name behind his reason for flight, only an overwhelming sense of terror. A feeling of fear that his family would leave him behind, that he was somehow not needed to complete the Watson picture.

  


Behind him, the voices gradually grew fainter, and John soon became aware of the sensation of being rained on. Fat, cold droplets hit him from every side, the wind blowing through his thin pyjama shirt and bottoms and causing shudders to tremble down his spine. His teeth chattered, even as he slid down the rock pile and huddled under its outcropping, clutching his arms in his hands. He curled inwards on himself, crying and shaking and trying to understand exactly where he was through the blur of tears. The darkness seemed to close in on all sides, making it hard to see. Not even the moon was out, covered by the clouds that spat lightning like poison on the ground below. John could hear and just make out the dark form of the ocean, rumbling and crashing roughly on the rocks.

  


The silence stretched on but for the rhythm of the water droplets, infinite and strange and lonely. The little boy sat up, peering into the blackness. His throat was hoarse with cold, and wisps of cloud came from his mouth as he hesitantly called out.

“H-hello?”

  


_CRACK._

  


A slam of thunder rattled the very sky. John, although not one to be usually afraid of storms, covered his hands with his ears and shrieked, ducking his head between his knees. His bare ankles trembled with shivers, and the breath he sucked into his chest was released in a sob. Biting his lip, John struggled to his feet, only to half-slip in the softness of the sand turned mud. The stones above seemed now like an impassible wall to conquer, and as he looked at his ruined and bloody palms the little boy came to the rather terrifying conclusion that he was stuck on the other half of the beach. Had it been daytime, John might have considered swimming around the outcropping, the waves were so rough and struck the sand with such vicious force that even he could hear their crushing power and thought against it.

  


The little boy at first tried to shout, tried to have his voice leap over the sound of the rumbling thunder, but he was cold and weak as a drenched kitten and already he felt the clammy stick of salt water on his scalp and how his eyes burned with exhaustion. Words kept sliding into his head, his mother's voice taking on their accusing nature.

  


_They'll be so mad you ran away. They'll hate you even more now. At least if you had stayed you might have proven you were worth something._

  


John tried to block out the voices, but they came at a faster rate, clawing at his thoughts and drinking from them greedily like leeches searching for blood. They tore at him, and if possible, he cried harder. Normally John wasn't afraid of anything, could smile cheerfully even during events that would make most small boys howl for their mothers. He rode the Waltzer at the fair with grace, finished his maths test early despite the multiplication questions, and didn't cry even when he had scraped his knee while chasing after Jerry Bates at school and tripped. Now however he couldn't seem to stop, and John knew it was because he thought he might truly die here, alone and cold and wet.

He wasn't even sure now if his family would really miss him.

  


Somehow, that thought made everything worse.

Still, Harry might find his body.

With that rather gloomy thought, the little boy buried his head in his elbows and attempted to not jump at every noise that came in the dark.

  


There were many.

  


*****

At some point, the rain stopped. Dwindling away, John didn't exactly realise at what point he nodded off, but he must've done, because he was woken by the singing.

  


At first, he thought he was imagining it, but as he blinked awake, John became aware of the moon. The clouds had finally dispersed some, and its pale rays shone down and turned everything to white and silver. The sand under the boy's feet seemed to glow ivory. Looking slowly up from his knees, John blearily realised that he was not alone.

  


In the distance, there was a shadow dancing lithely amongst the rocks. Their skin was white under the moon, ghostly so. From the distance he was at, John could just make out that they were bare completely. Smooth, milk-pale skin glowed luminescent like starlight. Yet that was not the strangest thing. The strangest thing was how John's mind suddenly seemed to slow, taking in a haunting, lilting voice that wrapped about him like silken threads, tightening the breath from his lips. It caused the cold, the wet to fade somehow, become unimportant. An unfamiliar warmth spread through the boy's chest, humming in his bones like liquid mercury. It made John feel at once heavy and light, and subconsciously, he leaned forward a little. Though he could not make out the words, the tone was soft and yet heavy with longing. Weighted with sadness.

A wretched, lovely agony.

  


_Come with me… Come with me…_ _I wish to hold you… turn your pain into gold like starlight… sigh with the sea… taste me…_

  


Time seemed to slow, become as sluggish as honey dripping from a spoon. John's eyelids felt heavy, and yet he had never been more awake. Vaguely, he realised he was rising to his feet, stumbling forward. Pain stopped him only briefly, the ragged state of his hands protesting at the tightening of his fists. The blood dripped upon the sand, and the figure's head turned towards him.

Almost as if he could smell the coppery liquid that dripped from John's fingers.

Like two magnets, they slowly approached one another, all the while the strange, beautiful song uttering from the pale boy's lips. A spell of captivity.

  


_Come to me… Come to me… Love the sea…_

  


****

  


Sherlock had not expected company.

Far from it, he had come to be alone. Had run far away, escaping his brother's grasp on him to come to the cove. He had wanted to think, wanted to observe. He had wanted only to catch a glimpse of the tow-headed boy, if only the barest of looks before he would have to leave. Migration was coming soon, the pups would soon grow sleeker and more apt at swimming. Sherlock had already noticed slight changes in his body, some of the softness going away. Replaced with something sharp and predatory. A hunter by nature. He hadn't been to the beach for a few moons now, having been swimming in the sea with his brethren. Still, he hadn't been able to get the Human's face out of his mind. Hadn't been able to get his essence, his flavour to leave his tongue. Such a _bright_ soul, such a vivid life, and Sherlock for the first time had felt the beginnings of _**The Hunger**_ pull at his chest, right where his heart beat. He _ached_ for a taste, thought about it many long nights, when he shed his coat and sat on the rocks that occasionally jutted from the sea and considered what he might do to fix such longing.

Still, though the longing was there, Sherlock knew he was not yet grown enough to act on it. To take everything, _feel_ everything that came with _**Hunger.**_ It was merely his blood stirring, preparing him for when he was older. It still burned him, like magma slowly replacing his blood. Dripping, dripping into his veins. It had clouded his thoughts, that rounded face and blue eyes, and Sherlock knew he had found what it was that _**Called**_ him. Each of his kind had something, each one a little different from the other. From the start, Sherlock knew what called him to the fair boy.

_Loyalty. Delicious, unwavering honesty. The kind that was as rich as the flavour of salmon and warm as a tropical tide. It drew him, clung to him. Refused to let him be._

  


So he had escaped, if only to look for the boy, see if he still wandered the beaches. His brother's words still lingered in his mind, cautionary and firm.

_Don't trust them, always be wary. Always be alert._

  


Still, he hadn't expected to find much. The cove was predictably dark and silent, and soon rain began to fall. Sherlock barely noticed, singing to himself as he wandered the beach, unsure of where the boy would have gone or where he was even from. His voice was becoming stronger, the full moon waxing it into full power as it drifted over the waves. A song only meant for certain people, ones that he _**Called**_ to as much as they _**Called**_ to him. The creature did not expect anyone to answer, and soon drifted into his mind to think, a piece of driftwood in a sea unseen.

  


He did not notice the small figure of the boy as it slid down the rocks, the sounds drowned out by the storm that raged around the pup. He did not hear the tears, not until after the waves calmed and shuddered, like a great bird whose feathers had been ruffled. He did not smell the blood until he realised that his _**Call**_ was being answered, a presence lingering in the periphery of his vision.

  


But when he _did_ hear, when he _did_ notice, and when he _did_ smell, all of Sherlock's thoughts came screeching to a halt. His pale blue eyes flicked to the standing figure, their pupils wide. The boy halted, freezing like a rabbit locking eyes with a fox.

  


The waves rolled, trembling as Sherlock's song continued to flow.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the two children moved towards each other, one with the slightly glazed eyes of a person lost to a dream, the other with the hungry look of a creature in search of satiation.

 


	5. Family Not Of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Sorry this hasn't been updated in a bit. For those of you following my other stories, you'll know I am currently being murdered alive by exams! *cowers in fear* Still, I hope you enjoy the chapter!! :D
> 
> Thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) For her lovely help!!!

 

_Tried to take it all away,_  
 _Learn her freedom... just inside a day,_  
 _And find her soul to find there fears are laid..._  
 _Tried to make her love their own,_  
 _They took her love... they left her there,_  
 _They gave her nothing back that she would want to own..._  
  
 _Gold and silver rings and stones,_  
 _Dances slowly off the moon,_  
 _No one else could know, she stands alone.._. _**~ Ocean Gypsy By Blackmore's Night**_

 

 

There was something ethereal and strange about the boy. That much, John was aware of.

 

Still, he didn't feel overly concerned by it, not when he blinked and the boy was suddenly standing over him, a pale shadow in the moonlight, and not when those beautiful blue eyes filled his vision and became the only thing that mattered. And beautiful they were, even to a child, who didn't really have much concept of the hungry once-over they gave him. Like twin sapphires, burning and claiming and yet at the same time peeling away every layer of rain and sand and grime that had coated John's skin. They were possessive, and crackled with something unnamed. The child's bow lips were parted, and from them came a lilting tune. This was what sent chills throughout John's spine, a tingling sensation that erupted from somewhere deep in his chest to rush over his limbs. For the song itself had no spoken lyrics, this much the boy could see. The creature before him did not speak, and yet his lips were parted and _words_ swam in John's head, filled him and capsized his body in a wave of comfort.

 

_Hush, no more tears... What is there to cry about? I'm here..._

 

Like a mother crooning to her child, the creature before him seemed to radiate an anaesthetic-like feeling of calm. Almost as though John was wrapped in the numbing tentacles of a jellyfish. It stung, but it only barely registered on the surface. Like a slow-acting poison.

 

And it was at that thought that something in John screamed at him insistently. Something tugged at the centre of his chest, demanding to be noticed. A voice that cried to him that the eyes which were now only inches from his face were _too_ blue, that the voice that sang from those bowed lips was _too_ sweet. Though it wasn't much, it was enough. John blinked, for just an instant coming back to himself, only to find the creature's hands wrapped about his throat. The little boy did only what he thought he could: lashing out, John kicked the pale boy right where he knew it would count.

 

Sherlock's song cut off with a shrill, pained cry. The boy-creature crumpled like a stone, gripping the front of his groin with a pained shout of outrage and surprise. John didn't stop there, he struck out with his fist, socking the boy solidly in the jaw before letting out a little yelp of his own and trying to scramble away. However, he realised that he had unintentionally cornered himself against the sharp bluff of the rocks, and whimpered in fear as he turned to find the pale boy rising back to his feet, eyes slitted in anger. The child in that instant no longer looked like a boy, but rather something more feral and monstrous. His blue-green eyes were slitted almost like a cat's, his lips curling back to reveal slightly pointed canines. A rattling hiss of breath rumbled from the creature's chest, sounding like the animalistic snarl of a large wolf. Those bony limbs righted themselves to a graceful crouch, poised as if to spring. John's wide blue eyes widened further, and his skin crawled with sudden and intense terror.

 

_Not Human._

 

The young boy could see that, etched into every inch of the creature's skin. It shouted at him, like a vivid splash of paint on pale moonlight. His very brain did not want to comprehend the existence of this strange hybrid, the strange in-between of beast and man. But possibly worse, was the fact there was just enough _Human_ inside the creature… That John felt a foreign feeling of fascination crawl over him, like the ghost of a breath against the back of his neck.

 

He was going to die curious, and that fact in itself seemed as darkly humorous as it was horribly unfair.

 

That realised, the boy for a moment heard his grandma's voice, whispering to him as a song in the back of his mind. Niggling away.

_Never die curious John. Always try to find out as much as you can about the world. Never be satisfied either with one answer. Always try to find another if you can._

 

It seemed he would fail on both accounts. John suddenly couldn't abide by that. His jaw clenched, and though there were tears of fear and pain in his eyes, he looked the creature stubbornly in the eye. His voice was firm if a bit shrill, his arms curled defensively about his legs, expecting an attack at the slightest provocation.

 

“Who are you?!”

 

And he closed his eyes, preparing to die by the sea like a pirate (the smallest measure of pride mixed in with his overwhelming sense of panic at that). Except after a moment, the growling stopped. As did the overwhelming pressure that came with the presence of a wild predator preparing to have its way. For a moment, John still didn't dare to look up, his breath still clenched tightly in his chest. Then, almost tentatively, he heard a sort of… whuffling noise, like the sound of someone inhaling sharply. Then, clearly heard between them, a series of chittering clicks and seal-like barks came from the creature. Their tone was... inquisitive, to say the least.

 

Slowly, John dared to open his eyes. He was met with no longer a monster, but the illusion of a darkly-curled young boy sitting bare before him. Sherlock, still carefully guarding his privates lest the man-beast before him decide to attack again, cautiously chittered. His question was simple.

 

_You can speak?_

 

The human responded in a strange, mumbling language, completely filled with strange vowel's and clumsy, stocky consonants. It was clear by its confused expression, it didn't understand seal-speak. Sherlock scowled in frustration, curiosity for the moment making him forget his desire in replace of a desire to _know._ He realised now he had been hasty, the craving making him act foolish. Here before him was a man-beast, a Human small enough that he could easily kill him if he dared to be insubordinate, and Sherlock had almost dared to eat him! The selkie-pup could have smacked himself, he was so infuriated! Filled with sudden and abrupt energy, he rose to his feet, chattering to himself excitedly- _Oh, excellent! This is fantastic! Stupendous!_

But the elation slowly dissolved into frustration. How could he ask it questions if he didn't understand it? He could observe behaviour, but as of yet the most the stupid creature had done was cower and hit him. _Violent in nature_ , Sherlock was sure to add to his new list of what Humans were. _Violent and perhaps not very bright._ Although he grudgingly supposed that he couldn't be entirely sure of the last determination. Still, there was _research_ to be done, and the pup brightened in immediate glee at the thought that if his brother knew what he was considering he would have a fit.

 

That seemed to seal the deal. Carefully making sure to not look quite so terrifying, Sherlock fixed his gaze on the shivering creature before him, hesitantly considering his options. Well... it worked with seduction… perhaps…

 

When John realised the boy was about to start singing again, he immediately clapped his hands over his ears. However what came out of the boy's lips were no silver-sweet words of comfort, nor were they invitations to draw nearer. Rather, what floated on the air was a question, and though it was simple, John understood immediately.

 

_Name?_

 

It floated in front of him, virtually like the swell of the tide. John found he wasn't able to refuse responding, his name coming to his lips before he was even fully aware the sounds had formed.

“John. John Watson.”

 

The creature rolled the name in his head, trying to shape it to his underwater dialect. When he hesitantly tried to sound it out, John couldn't help but giggle slightly. Because what came from the boy's lips was a horrible garble of sound, coming out vaguely to sound like _Jawn Wats'n._ Sherlock scowled at the mocking sound that came out of the little Human's mouth, bristling not unlike a puffer fish with spines. He crossed his arms over his chest in childish sulking, pointing to himself and singing with an overly sugary flair of politeness

_Sherl'ck Holm's._

 

John's pale brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue stumbling over the complicated clicks and squeaks within the name. He was suddenly determined to do better than the other child, and finally proudly said “Sherlock Holmes!” with a large grin. The pale boy smirked, glittering eyes twinkling with the motion. It was a strangely innocent expression, and John found himself smiling in return, laughing as the creature insisted on repeating his name until it came out vaguely as _John Wats'on._

 

After the twelfth repetition, the creature almost had it. The tow-headed boy exclaimed an awed “Brilliant!” In response to his efforts, and though Sherlock didn't know the meaning of the word, he could note the praise in its tone. The seal pup found his ears warming slightly in response, pupils widening cat-like. If he had a tail, it might have been wagging. Instead he found himself shuffling closer to the man-beast, sniffing intently to catch the flavour of his new study. John froze as the creature leaned against him, nose pressing against the crook of the boy's neck. Sherlock's skin was cold, but soft and strangely smooth. Hairless. Even the fine edges of his curls were silky to the touch as they brushed against John's cheek. When the pale boy drew away a moment later with a yip of triumph, John found himself abruptly less scared of the creature than he had been only a moment before. It was hard to find anything scary really, when they were all but rolling in the sand in excitement.

As it was, Sherlock was elated by John's scent. Like sunshine and the rich, salted smell that came from shallow tide-pools, it was just the kind of flavour the young pup enjoyed the presence of. Comforting without being too heavy. That, coupled with the fact that the child obviously thought he was just as interesting as Sherlock found _him_ , made for something fascinating and _new._ Nothing like this ever happened in the ocean, and that made Sherlock want to all but vibrate out of his skin.

 

John could taste the energy inside the creature, like a firework put under pressure. Cheered slightly, the little boy tried to encourage it, clapping when Sherlock suddenly turned to dive head-first into the ocean, emerging like a fish a second later to paddle swiftly back to shore. Soaking wet and yet without a care in the world, Sherlock's mood seemed to be infectious. The creature carefully sang out another line, the same buzzing energy oozing through the notes and filling John, replenishing his mood so that it became buoyant and free.

 

_Swim? Swim with me?_

 

And John wasn't sure this time if the creature really was trying to eat him, or if he just wanted to play. It was perhaps a bit of both, as Sherlock splashed playfully in the waves, flipping onto his back to twist and dive beneath the crashing waves as they came to shore. At some point the rain had stopped, and now the froth the creature kicked up glittered like shimmering jewels in the halo of moonlight. The boy bit his lip, chancing a glance back in the direction of his home. The rock face was too steep, he would never make it in this state… besides, he was still reluctant to actually go home. The thought made his stomach twist into knots, and when given the option to swim right in front of him, well, John couldn't quite bring to himself a good reason to say no. Sherlock waited patiently for him, frog paddling in place on his belly. The water was deep, but the boy stayed afloat with both practised and natural ease. Innate. A part of John knew he was being hypnotised by that stare, those large eyes pinning him and claiming him. He found he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

 

Carefully shucking off his already soaking pyjamas, John ran down the beach, diving without a care in the world into the cold waters of the sea.

 

****

It swam like a clumsy fish, Sherlock observed in bemusement. John Watson appeared to know very little about the mechanics of the ocean's waves, as he tried to swim against them instead of following its natural currents in order to get closer to Sherlock. The man-beast seemed intent of swallowing more salt water than actually swimming in it, kicking and splashing in such an obscene way that Sherlock found it to be oddly amusing. The pup's bubbling giggle was not unlike John's own, perhaps more clicking before the creature dove underwater, intent on finding his new experiment some kind of tidbit to awe over. Sherlock liked being praised, always had. And this Human was indeed very good at worshipping.

 

The water was clear enough that John could see the pale boy swimming beneath him, kicking effortlessly down into the waves to reach the sand beneath on the ocean floor. He was a silvery figure, somehow too sinuous to quite appear real to John before he kicked back to surface with a gasp, a handful of shining pebbles in one hand. He eagerly pushed them towards John, who admired their pretty, swirling colour vocally even while concentrating on keeping himself afloat. He kept a safe distance between him and the creature, about an arm's-length, but when their hands brushed at the exchange of the stones John saw that whatever aggression had possessed Sherlock at the beginning had vanished, at least for now. Replaced with wide-eyed wonder and childlike good-intent, the boy looked almost Human. Save for the fact at that when the moon hit his irises, they glowed like sapphires blazing in front of a hearth. Soon, John wasn't surprised when Sherlock began to hum questions at him, his voice sighing out enquiry to the night air softly in the dark.

 

_Why do you not swim well? How do you get anywhere? Are you a pup like me? Or just short? I snuck off from my pod, you know. My family. Where is your family? Do you have a Mycroft?_

 

John didn't really know what a 'Mycroft' was, but at the mention of his family the boy stiffened, his persistent paddling halting for a beat too long before he had to thrash to stay afloat. Of course Sherlock noticed it, the pup briefly wondering if his new companion would drown before he even got any answers (if so he was keeping him, he would bring the body back to his pod if only to drive Mycroft mental, he already knew a spell to preserve bodies). However the man-beast appeared to have remembered something painful, as his small face scrunched up in what Sherlock could only guess might be sadness as he stared down at his hand full of shining stones. For a moment Sherlock worried it had been _him_ that had upset John, but then the little boy abruptly turned to paddle towards shore, dripping water onto the dry sand as he sat down on the sand and began to sob.

 

John buried his head in his knees, heaving salty tears until after a moment, he heard the splash of another body making its way to shore. Sherlock apparently didn't understand beyond the fact that he was obviously distressed, making alarmed burbling noises that sounded not unlike the low humming of whale song to John's ears as he approached the curled up Human. The pale boy sat down a few inches away from him, dark curls cocked to one side with his head as those wide blue eyes took in John's tear-streaked cheeks calculatingly, trying to discover the source of his pain.

 

_Mentioned family... No family...? Family gone?_

 

He voiced his thoughts, and when the boy only responded by crying harder, the pup felt within himself a knot of pure distress. All of his thoughts of eating John dissipated with the idea of being totally alone, without pod or even stupid brother to look after you. It didn't happen amongst his kind, _especially_ to pups. The very idea made Sherlock uneasy, rather like he might start crying as well. Except there was nothing for _him_ to cry about, and he scowled at the foolishness of such sentiment on principal. Instead he crept cautiously closer, still very much aware that the man-beast was capable of kicking out his genitals while he was in this form. Hesitantly those ivory finger-tips reached out to catch a tear-drop from John's cheek, and when the tow-headed boy saw how his new friend stuck it in his mouth and promptly gaped, some of his sadness abated to affection.

 

“N-No. No f-family. I've ups-” he hiccuped, the noise sounding bright and strange to Sherlock. “I've upset them.”

John realised then how lonely he felt, how fragile. Big, angry tears threatened to fall again and he bit his lip harshly. To his surprise, Sherlock seemed to understand, if only a little.

 

_Your sadness tastes like the sea._

 

He sang, and it was so strangely poetic that the little boy found himself nodding, not bothering to question it when Sherlock after a moment leaned his dark curls against his bare shoulder. The pup looked at his hands compared to John's, examining their similarities and differences for a moment before he sang

 

_Sad without family?_

 

Wordlessly, his new friend nodded, still sniffing slightly from the tears. The creature blinked, considering his options. He didn't like John sad. It was strange, but it made Sherlock's chest itch, and not like the pleasant tug of chasing after prey, or wrestling with his brood-mates and older siblings. Instead it was a heavy thing, the ache of a pup without a mother, and for a moment Sherlock saw not a man-beast but another pup, just like him. John wasn't terrible looking for a man-beast, the pup rather liked the colour of his skin, even though it was darker than his brother's and sister's. Rather like the colour of his other skin, his coat. His hair was lighter than his, almost white, soft like the algae in shallow pools. Short. The pup felt an immediate desire to keep him, the possessive urge to protect things that he concluded belonged to him a natural instinct in his kind. Still, it was rare for it to attach to people, and unheard of for something other than his own species. However Sherlock still felt it, unyielding and insistent, and he wasn't sure if it was hunger or pity or a craving for comradeship or a mix of all three. The fact was:

Sherlock was lonely.

A little prince, never allowed to do as he wished.

 

And John was lonely too. A human, but still sad. Still wanting to not be left behind.

 

That decided, the little pup made a decision.

He was keeping John Watson. Come hell or high sea, the boy now belonged to _him._

 

Turning his cheek to look the boy in the eye, he gripped either side of John's face, demanding he stare. John didn't struggle, although he swallowed nervously as Sherlock parted his lips to sing. However, no lulling call for the sea came. Instead, the little creature's voice was firm. Unmoving.

 

_John will have family. John has me._

 

 


	6. A Selkie's Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelp, this is essentially where the story truly begins :D Sorry for the long wait, I hope everyone had a lovely holiday and a happy new year! :3

 

_Once a fair and handsome Seal Lord_  
 _Lay his foot upon the sand_  
 _For to woo the fisher's daughter_  
 _And to claim her marriage hand_  
  
 _I have come in from the ocean_  
 _I have come in from the sea_  
 _And I'll not go to the waves, love_  
 _Lest ye come along with me_ **- _The Maiden And The Selkie By Heather Dale_**

 

 

Sherlock's grip around his arm was inescapable as he tugged John to his feet, pulling him to the little cave at the side of the beach with a firmness that the little boy couldn't hope to deny. There was an air of determination about the little creature, a kind of burning energy that made Sherlock's wolf-pale eyes glitter with fire as he led the way.

 

John noticed that the moon was beginning to sink in the sky, like a silver medallion it fell as the stars began to pinken with dawn on the horizon. He had been out longer than he realised, playing with Sherlock. However, the thought was soon put from his mind even as the darkly-curled boy chirruped and sang out his promise yet again.

_John won't be alone! John is mine! John belongs to me and the sea!_

 

It was a lullaby filled with a haunting kind of certainty, and for a moment the boy caught a glimpse again of the hunger underneath the boy. Sherlock was not quite human-looking in the light of the moon, all pale edges and dark shapes. He did not seemed overly worried or concerned about his own family, and though his sentences were simple, John got the uncomfortable feeling that the creature was much brighter than he appeared to be. If John had been older, he might have voiced that Sherlock's grip upon his wrist was vice-like, or he might have at least questioned why Sherlock paused once only to scoop a hollowed out shell from the sand. It was a mussel half; its pearly inside shimmering in the pup's palm before the two boys were overshadowed by the outcrop of the cave.

 

It looked dark inside. John swallowed nervously, balking a little as he strained to see anything inside the inky shadow. Sherlock didn't seem as perturbed. He bounded ahead, stopped only when the hand attached to his new friend's wrist was yanked back by John's hesitation. The pup turned to John in confusion, huffing irritatedly as he realised what the problem was. The creature's voice turned soft and soothing, and even though John was aware he was being manipulated now, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. The tune coiled deeply into the little boy's chest, tunnelling its way into an aching emptiness right by his heart that he didn't know existed until now. It was pure comfort at its most base sound, and no child nor man could hope to resist the melody of a selkie attempting to be kind.

_Nothing to be afraid of, no reason to flee. Listen to my heartbeat, we are one with the sea._

Inside the cave, the sand was cool and damp. John felt it collect in the crevices between his toes, and he shivered with the abrupt realisation that he had somehow managed to leave his clothing behind. Goosebumps pebbled along the outside of his arms and the back of his neck, brushed by the cool sea air. Sherlock, however, seemed not to mind nudity, even as he knelt to lovingly scoop something into his arms. For a moment, John thought it to be a dress, however as the child turned to him, the boy saw it was something closer to a cloak. It looked like, well it looked like it was made of _fur._

 

Sherlock's fingers touched his pelt gently, long fingers running over the faintly speckled skin with all the tender touch of a mother. Although he presented it to John, he refused to let the little boy touch, a small growl of warning erupting from his throat that even his friend could interpret without the aid of his song. His skin was a light, glossy brown, still a bit on the fluffed side since he was a pup. Already though, John could see that Sherlock would one day be glossy brown and nearly hairless, the dark layer of hide already coming through. At the throat of the cloak was a clasp, and although it was undone John could see it had engraved onto it a sort of design. Tilting his head, the little boy saw that etched into the silvery clip was the image of a seal halfway transformed into a man. The darkly-curled child seemed to read his friend's confusion, because the next instant he sang.

_Family crest. Silver is rare, my family is royalty._

 

The pup stated the last bit with as much disgust as pride, nose curling even as he preened slightly at John's gasp of amazement. The little boy's voice held in it a note of incredulity even as he looked at Sherlock with a mixture of amazement and wonder, voice holding a reverent note of enraptured fascination.

 

“Gran was right,” he breathed excitedly, and Sherlock was promptly surprised but pleased when the little boy all but tackled him in a crushing embrace. John's voice was giddy with wonder, looking down to Sherlock's cloak and seeing it for what it was.

A seal skin.

 

“You're... You're a _Selkie..._ ” John all but vibrated on the spot, overcome with amazement. He giggled into his hand, spinning around as a rush of manic energy suddenly clutched at him.

“I'm friends with a _Selkie_!”

 

His crow of ecstatic realisation made Sherlock grin, although he didn't understand a word of what the boy was saying. For a moment, both children danced about each other, lost in the playful atmosphere that John's happiness seemed to naturally create. But it soon turned serious once more as John turned to look outside, noticing that the sun was already pinkening on the horizon. In the boy's head, he heard his grandmother's voice, whispering to him the tales and tricks of the underwater world far below.

 

_You'll never see them outside their seal form at dawn, John. They are creatures made from sea foam and moonlight, and cannot stand the sun's rays. A Selkie cannot survive under the light of sunrise. They are cursed to forever live in the darkness, as they are thought to be the unholy mixing of beast and man._

 

Sherlock seemed to be aware that they were running out of time. He sobered instantly as he saw where John's gaze was directed, and abruptly took his friend's hand to lead him deeper into the darkness of the cave. In the centre of the shadowy cove was a small slope, and at the bottom of it a shallow tide-pool. It was here that Sherlock pulled John, guiding him into the water that lapped patiently as if waiting for its sister sea to once again lay claim. John could tell the cove spent part of its time at night underwater, could feel it by the cool touch of the salted pool about him as it came to rest just at his waist. After a moment his friend climbed in beside him, standing across from him in the dark. Sherlock's form glowed luminescent even away from the moon's kiss, his very skin seemingly made of milk and snow-white pearls. He was a light in the darkness, and it was made increasingly more apparent as he opened his mouth and sang out a question that made John's chest fill with a strange exhilaration.

 

_Do you want to see the sea?_

 

His question seemed to hold within it a thousand other requests, and the little boy found himself nodding, despite the fact that Sherlock's teeth were just a bit too pointed for his liking when he grinned in response. The _Selkie_ pup seemed encouraged by John's answer, his hands splashing slightly in the water around him as he seemed unable to quite contain his excitement.

 

_Does John like Sherlock? Does John want to stay with me?_

As the pup spoke, the water around his figure began to pulse from seemingly within. It shone a white-blue, John feeling the water heat slowly around him like a bathtub. The little boy gasped, making as if to move away. However, Sherlock's hand shot out like a flash, catching the boy by the wrist. When John turned to look at the _Selkie,_ he gaped.

Sherlock was _glowing._

There was a great deal of old magic within Sherlock's family, the likes of which he was to someday inherit when he came into his princely duties. However, the youngest Holmes had always been an exceptionally gifted, if not slightly unpredictable student. He listened and observed more than many fully grown adults of his kind did, and not just to the living. No. The pup could hear the waves, he knew its sweet lyrics and how it longed to meet the shore and yet could never quite grasp it. He spoke to dolphins and learned their chittering cries, and taught himself their language so he could learn how to swim amongst their ranks. Sherlock knew to listen to every stone and every shell he met, cupping them to his ear and running his hands along their smooth and jagged surfaces. He knew to read their stories, as clear as an old woman's salt-brined voice if one only knew what they were hearing, and he knew that there was power within himself.

 

It would be difficult.

 

Most adults of his kind only achieved it when they were fully grown. A once in a lifetime kind of spell. As it was, the pup could _feel_ the texture of his own heartbeat, pounding away even as his arms and chest and legs glowed with bright blue tattoos, invisible to the human eye normally and yet now on display for John to see. They were whorling patterns, circles of overlapping and various size and shape, swirling into spirals that crept up his jutting collar-bones and sharp cheekbones, clinging like ivy across his lips and eyelids. He looked not unlike a painted dancer from some old textbook, and the marks made the creature appear slightly more wild and untamed even as he asked John again his question.

 

_Does John want to stay with me?_

 

The little boy looked hard at his new friend before him, biting his lip in thought. Did he? He _liked_ Sherlock, that much was certain. There was an atmosphere about the creature, an instant connection the child understood down to his bones even if he did not fully comprehend its meaning. Yet did he want to stay with Sherlock... _forever?_

Again John thought of his family. Harry and his mum and dad. Grandma. Were they worried? He thought they must be, by now. Or maybe they were glad he was gone. After all, mum had looked so certain so... _sad_ because of him. Stubbornly, John set his jaw. If they didn't want him around, then he wouldn't force himself onto them. Anger rumbled in his stomach, he wanted them to miss him, wanted them to see he was something to be worth having! The little boy still felt guilt though, mixed with something hot and painful and acidic in the back of his throat. He wanted to go home... but he could not go home.

 

Could he?

 

As if sensing his hesitation, Sherlock brought John back to the present by turning the wrist he still gripped over gently. His hands were like ice, and yet they burned the boy's skin. His long fingers traced the vein of John's wrist, and the little boy gasped as underneath his skin, his blood began to glow blue. Sherlock slowly brought his friend's wrist to his lips, mouth parting to reveal sharply edged teeth. The _Selkie's_ voice took on a low growl, like the kick-start of a truck roaring to life. Sherlock's eyes were blazing azure blue.

 

_Does John trust me? Does John wish to hear the sea?_

 

And the little boy could suddenly hear the creature's heart, pounding away inside of his own veins, mingling with the rhythm of his own heartbeat and drowning it. Claiming. John couldn't breathe, he felt hot and cold, and the water around them bubbled like it was boiling. Frothing like an angry dog. He could feel his breath trying to explode from his chest, but it was like nothing could quite escape the coldness that had suddenly descended into his friend's eyes. The air itself seemed to have been sucked out of the cove.

And yet John had never seen anything so brilliant. So dazzlingly _pure._

“Yes,” he found himself saying, and Sherlock's eyes if possible sparked even brighter. The roaring in John's ears increased, and he cried out in a mixture of pain and shock as suddenly, his friend wrenched his wrist forward and bit down.

 

_Hard._

 

Sherlock heard John's yelp of protest, and then the magic was flowing through him, and he couldn't have stopped if he tried.

Because for an instant, he was cracked open and exposed to John Watson, and John Watson was exposed and cracked open to him. And they were one in the same as their thoughts flowed freely through each other, shivering and expanding into a heat that was at once scalding as it was nurturing. It was the beginning of a Bond Bite, and Sherlock was never, _ever_ told it would feel like _this._

 

Never told him it would feel like his very skin was alive and fused to another's.

 

The blood in his mouth was hot, pounding. For a moment, he thought he might take more, take all of it. Drink it along with John's life force, bending him and absorbing him into his own body so Sherlock could never misplace him, never lose him. An overwhelming urge of possessive need, not sexual in the slightest yet fierce and wanting. Like needing oxygen after diving for too long, like needing another's touch after spending so much time away from his pod. The earth's rotation shifted inside Sherlock, and the sea now surrounded in John and John was the centre of his ocean. It was an unspeakable, unnameable sensation, and the _Selkie_ pup released his bite only to reel back, the water having roiled high enough to now come up to his chest. With the release of his teeth, John fell forwards, eyes glazed and lost and woozy. Sherlock only just managed to catch him, the tattoos running up and down his body once again fading from view as he wrapped his arms about the slightly taller boy.

 

John was heavy like a stone, and the _Selkie_ pup realised detachedly that perhaps he should have made sure that his friend was closer to the edge of the pool before doing this. As it was, Sherlock kicked expertly to the edge, hauling his friend and now for all intents and purposes future _Mate_ to the dry part of the cove. John's breathing was heavy, his heartbeat thrummed hard enough for Sherlock to feel it as he brushed his ribs, the _Selkie_ quickly darting outside to grab his friend's clothes and draping them over him like a protective cape. John even unconscious seemed to be partially aware of Sherlock's presence, a soft groan of distress parting from his lips when the _Selkie_ lifted his wrist critically to inspect the bite. Clean, but bleeding heavily. He had never been taught how but for a first try Sherlock thought it rather well done. The pup smiled smugly to himself, happily yipping in triumph. John Watson was now _his._

 

The pup began to make plans.

 

There were certain rules within the realm of the _Selkies,_ laws that were as old at the sand at the bottom of the sea itself and as binding in their spells as iron chains. Sherlock had been born into the heart of them, next in line within his pod for leadership, a prince amongst his kind. He had grown up knowing that what he had just done, what he had just given away, was something permanent, and something that would not be easily forgiven. His brother was sure to be enraged when he found out, and the thought alone made Sherlock grin rather nastily. He was so _tired_ of courts and stupid parties, of dances in the moonlight with the other children, in which they knelt and postured in front of him and called him _kach'nda_ and pretended to like him. The pup was only the equivalent of eight Human years old give or take, but it already infuriated him.

 

Waiting for John to awake, Sherlock marvelled at how fragile Human beings seemed to be. Although even he had been struck by the magic's power , his new Mate appeared to be out stone cold. The pup might have been worried, if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of John's chest. Although Sherlock had little doubt that his kind were stronger physically, it still amazed him. His fingers tentatively reached out to stroke the side of John's cheek in curiosity, marvelling at its chubby-like softness. Already, Sherlock was losing his baby-fat, becoming leaner and more angular. John, however seemed to still have a ways to go before any muscle would be likely to form. Still, that did not bother the pup. He had no doubt that John would make a good Mate. Once he became like Sherlock, of course, and joined him in the waves. The thought sent a flutter of contentment through him.

 

He wouldn't be alone any more, he would have someone to show all of the places he had explored while sneaking away from his responsibilities. Sherlock couldn't wait to show John the pack of sea turtles he had befriended, far away in strange and warmer oceans than here. He couldn't wait to show him all the jewels of the sea in their glittering worth, pearls and rainbow-streaked shells of deep beauty and mystery. Most of all, Sherlock could not contain his excitement at the fact that everyone would _have_ to accept John as _his_ , as Selkie's only mated once within their lifetime. Even Mycroft could not undo this magic, once John donned a seal coat of course. The tribe would be unable to complain, the heir to the throne tied to the little Human in more ways than one.

 

The pup felt he could not have made a better choice than in John. Surely, he had made a good decision. John was not wanted by his family, and Sherlock wanted John. It seemed simple, and simple was good. Simple meant even idiots like his brother could not find fault within the pup's actions.

 

Sherlock felt this way even as the boy stirred beneath his hand, and sleepily his friend murmured, “M-mum?”

 

John, to his credit, felt like he had been mowed over by a truck. The back of his eyelids pulsed with blue and green spots, and as he came back to himself slowly, it took him a second to realise he was not in his bed. That what he felt underneath him was not the scratch of sheets, but the scratch of sand beneath his fingers. It also took John a moment to recognise the fingers touching and exploring his face, and he blinked woozily as a half-dozen Sherlock's slowly melded into one staring at him from above with mild concern. Hazily, the boy blinked up at the darkly-curled creature, lips moving against his will as he slowly rasped, “What time is it?”

 

Typically, Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, the creature parted his lips and sang softly, cradling John's face between his hands. When he sang, John felt as if the world was melting away, a gentle lull in which the knot of pain that was shooting up and down his wrist and the tightness in his chest couldn't help but ease.

 

_You are safe here. I will come back. There is one more thing I must do. The sea calls for you, John Watson, can you hear her within my words?_

 

John could, he found. Maybe he was just dizzy. Maybe it was something else, but Sherlock's voice had changed in his ears. It now held in it a power he couldn't identify, something heavy and comforting and thrumming and whole. It cradled John, made him feel instantly okay, despite the fact that he was disoriented and afraid. He wanted to go home, but he also could not imagine moving. Not when Sherlock pressed his lips gently to the boy's forehead, murmuring soft orders into the shell of his ear.

 

_Sleep now, Dear One. Sleep until the next moon. For I will not be able to come to you until then. Sleep, sleep in this cove tucked away. And when I return I will show you the way. A Selkie's coat is what you need, and I know where to get one. And when I return you are mine, mine. When I return you are mine...._

 

The little boy felt his eyes sliding shut against his will, the soothing lullaby seeping into his bones. Sherlock's hands left him, but John still felt his presence, lingering for a moment by his side. He was so tired all of a sudden, so heavily and endlessly _sleepy._ Dreams called to him, vague and formless things, but the little boy fought it, suddenly afraid. What if Sherlock was leaving him? What if he couldn't ever wake up? What if all of this was a mistake? John struggled mentally, the clouds of sleep still trying to cling to him. He didn't want Sherlock to go, didn't want to be left in this cove for an entire day. He didn't want to dream of his family's anger, or his own guilt. He made a soundless noise of distress, except perhaps it didn't go completely unheard. For Sherlock's last words comforted John before he slipped away, as much at the hand that traced the burning mark along the inside and outside of his wrist.

 

_Sleep, sleep. I promise I'll never leave you. My word is my honour, is it not? My Dear One, no worries, the sea sings to you. You are mine, you are mine, you are mine._

 

John slept, his muscles finally falling slack in surrender. Sherlock smiled before rising to his feet, dawn already threatening on the horizon. His seal coat was draped over his shoulder, clasp still undone. It would take a full day to travel to his destination, and no doubt Mycroft was trying to track him down. He would not be able to return for John until the next night. For an instant, possessive protectiveness filled the young pup, but he pushed it aside.

 

No one was hunting for John Watson. He would be fine. To be sure, Sherlock traced the Bond Bite one last time. It was already taking, starting to heal over and scab. When the Selkie drew his hand away, it was stained crimson pink with his new Mate's blood. He licked it clean, purring in content.

 

Yes, all in all this turned out to be far better than Sherlock would have ever expected.

The Selkie dove into the sea, once more a creature of dark fur and fins just as the sun crested the sky. It bathed the sand rich orange-gold and turned the water beneath it into liquid fire, casting its light upon the cove with warm fingers.

John did not stir.

 

****

He dreamt that he was falling. From where exactly, John hadn't the faintest idea. Yet he could feel himself tumbling downwards, into a place that was dark and unknown. It was like he was floating, coasting into a velvety sort of night. Distantly, he could hear someone or something singing, humming in his ear although he could not make out the words. It was a strange song, the lyrics he sensed did not rhyme, and yet there was rhythm to it that made it melodic, and it sounded like the most beautiful thing the boy had ever happened to listen to. Though he did not know the name of the tune, he did know its singer. He knew he did, although the name could not come to him. It was tasted on his lips, like the strong scent of an orange rind. Sharp and tangy.

Eventually, the song changed. It turned into someone calling for him.

 

_John... John?... John..._

It echoed in the boy's mind, bouncing around in the blackness as John tried to pinpoint its source. Like a rubber ball thrown inside an elastic room. John chased after it in his mind, knowing the voice, despite the fact that the song tried to drown it out. The further he ran, the closer the voice seemed to become, and soon it took on a frantic edge and John knew it, knew who was looking for him.

_John! Oh God, John! He's here! He's here! John?! John, wake up!!_

_**Harry!** _

His mind screamed, and the song around him suddenly shattered, screeched like an ill note of a violin being abused. Pools and waves filled John's lungs, he could not breathe. There was pressure on his chest and his wrist was throbbing. A haunting, broken key sang in his ears, low and growling.

_Mine!_

But even as it cried out its claim, familiar hands were scooping John into their arms. His dad's voice was warm and wet, begging for him to open his eyes even as he screamed for his mum to call an ambulance. John wanted to wake, but he felt as if his body was made of lead. Heavy and lethargic, he barely managed to utter a small groan. He could feel his father's warmth, seeming to suck whatever cold had leached into John's bones out even as he rocked him gently and murmured reassurances. Hazily, John registered that his dad's voice didn't sound angry like he had expected. Rather, he sounded afraid.

More than afraid.

Terrified.

A small, impossible kernel of hope lodged itself in John's throat like a stone, even as he heard the footfalls of his sister approaching. Her voice was breathless with having run long distance.

 

“Grandma says an ambulance is on its way – it's going to be delayed because of the storm though.” Then her voice drawing close to John's ear, concern and sadness clogging her throat.

“What do you think attacked him?”

Attacked? John couldn't remember an attack. All he could recall was Sherlock and the sea and that crooning voice, and the indescribable pain in his wrist – oh.

 

The little boy understood suddenly. The Selkie had redressed him, but the boy's clothes were torn and mud-stained. His wrist was still bleeding, he could feel that much. Yet he still could not wake, even when his father tensely murmured

 

“Dunno, looks like some kind of dog bite, but there are no dogs I know of that would have just stopped after one bite. Not if he was –”

He broke off then, and John could feel the darkness coming back. Now he fought it desperately, trying to keep away Sherlock's haunting repetition.

 

_Sleep, sleep, you're mine. I'll come back for you, you're mine and mine only._

 

Yet nothing he did seemed to work. John felt himself slipping again, easing back into the cool black waters. The last thing he heard was his mum's cries, her hands on his face. She stroked the spot where Sherlock had kissed him.

Her touch couldn't seem to rub the brand-like feeling of it away.


	7. Faerie Tales No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter's a bit short ^.^'' Apologies, I can almost guarantee the next one will more than make up for it :)
> 
> As always, many thanks to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). :)

 

_Lord, long have I loved you_  
 _As a Selkie on the foam_  
 _I would gladly go and wed ye_  
 _And be lady of your home_  
 _But I cannot go into the ocean_  
 _I cannot go into the sea_  
 _I would drown beneath the waves, love,_  
 _If I went along with thee_.  _ **~ The Maiden and The Selkie By Heather Dale**_

 

 

Darkness was a velvet blanket, swaddling John in a circular sort of embrace that had no seams or exits in which he could crawl out from. A tunnel, stretching out ahead of him eerily, soft wind moaning in his hair and bringing with it the faint taste of salt and sea. Like one of his favourite books, where an endless cave led children astray into its depths never to be seen again. Except there was no song of faeries calling for him liltingly, only a melody that John somehow knew at the core of his being. Screaming for him, really. It shrieked his name again and again, howled it like a stormy wind kicking across dark-churned waters. The snarl in its tone was inhuman, but John found he wasn't frightened by the voice. Rather, there was a stretching pain in his abdomen, travelling upwards into the crook of his wrist. It fluttered like a pulse. A butterfly's breath of longing. He wanted the screaming to stop, but he wanted to stop it by padding the voice's tears away with his fingers, by pressing his arms around pale shoulders.

 

He was barely aware he was screaming until the shriek of hospital monitors wailed with him, and he was tossed from the sea of his dreams into the real world, a small boy being held down by concerned nurses. All strange faces, ones John shied away from and shouted at, a pounding panic clawing under his skin like thousands of marching ants. He was vaguely aware of who he was shouting for, who he was begging for the pain to stop, his fingers scrabbling at the bandages surrounding his left wrist.

_“SHERLOCK! WHERE'S SHERLOCK!? SHERLOCK!!”_

 

He sobbed again and again, babbling at the pounding ache in his head that only seemed to respond to his wails of pain by persisting, growing in urgency and strength. John barely felt the prick of the sedative being injected into his arm, but quite suddenly his limbs refused to obey him, and he was slumping exhausted back into the hospital bed. The boy's dark-blue eyes fluttered closed, but not before he rather woozily reached out and grabbed the sleeve of one of the nurse's. His concerned face swam in and out of focus, but the little boy didn't really recognise it was because tears were filling his vision. Just before he slipped away, John begged the stranger to find the selkie who was calling for him.

 

“H've t' fin' Sh'lck.”

 

The last thing John saw was the stranger gently extricating himself from his grip, moving to lay the boy completely slack against the pillows.

John's sleep was dreamless.

 

****

Fear, pain and shock can do strange things to a person. That was what John's parents were told when the doctor came to see them and tell them about their son's condition. Dr Finnegan was an elderly man, and his Irish brogue was carefully differential even as he held up the clipboard in his hands and explained to them why John had to be sedated.

"We believe of all things a seal attacked him, judging from the teeth marks. Though it's rare, it's not unheard of, especially during pup-rearing season. The females are known to be aggressive. Needless to say in the dark, a small boy might very well mistake it for a monster. It's natural when put into context, why he panicked upon reawakening."

It was at that moment that John's grandmother came forward, blue eyes scowling as she put her hands on her hips. Her gnarled voice was acerbic as she glowered at the doctor.

"The poor thing's frightened and we're not allowed to see him?! And yet you say that there's little to be done –"

 

"Mum!" John's mother snapped, eyes flashing in apology even as she murmured, "I'm sorry. Please, will our son be all right?"

She leaned into her husband's side as if without him she would crumble, tired eyes stained with bruised purple on the undersides and mouth a thin, pinched line. The doctor smiled reassuringly, adjusting his glasses on his nose before replying.

 

"If all goes well he should be right as rain by tomorrow morning and ready to go home that evening. He's had quite a scare, but your son is healthy. The bite will leave a scar but other than that, he seems to be fine."

 

It was then Harry spoke from where she was seated in one of the hard and unforgiving plastic chairs. She was still dressed in her pyjamas, hair mussed from not sleeping for an entire night while looking for her brother. Her eyes were large and serious.

 

"He kept begging for someone named Sherlock on the way to the hospital," she murmured, hands clasped lightly in her lap.

She had been sitting in the ambulance that brought John along, the decision made since she was the smallest of John's family and surprisingly the one in the least hysterics. Her eyes narrowed in thought, and she looked at the doctor questioningly.

 

"I've never heard him mention a Sherlock before, not in school, not when talking about the neighbourhood kids, not anywhere. He didn't call for me, didn't call for Mum or Dad or even Grandma. He called for Sherlock, and asked for him."

 

Dr Finnegan shrugged calmly, features twisting into a faintly placating smile.

 

"Our mind when it's rattled, comes up with the strangest things. Who knows? Perhaps John will be able to tell you just who he was talking about when he awakes. In any case if he asks for him again, I'd just gloss over the topic. Chances are he's going to experience some disorientation for a little while until he gets back on his feet. Partly the medication's fault and all. Distract him with reality, ask him about his family instead of lingering on a name he plucked in a moment of panic and fear."

 

Then, Dr Finnegan nodded and made his excuses, quietly turning to attend to another family.

John's grandmother huffed angrily under her breath, but the doctor merely called over his shoulder.

 

"Visiting hours are from noon to six, but in John's case, it might be best to wait until he wakes up. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask the nurses. I wish you all the best."

With that he was gone, leaving the family to settle in for a seemingly endless wait.

 

By the next morning, John awoke. The first person he asked for was a selkie named Sherlock.

It was at that point that John's mother took his grandmother by the arm, and firmly instructed that the faerie tales before bedtime were to come to an end.

John's father held his son's hand, and calmly told him that selkies did not exist.

And John, unsure of what was dream and what was real, found himself nodding. Even as a pang of sadness ripped through his chest, what was he to do?

After all, even his grandmother was looking at him as if he were mad.

So John forgot the dream that slowly became just that, and in time, he stopped asking for his friend. At least, he stopped out loud.

 

 

In the quiet of his mind, sometimes he would curl on his side, and quietly ask for the selkie to come. To show them he wasn't insane. That he hadn't made his friend up.

Sometimes as he slept, he could almost feel Sherlock by his side, desperately searching for him. In these dreams, Sherlock would run in the opposite direction, figure bending and twisting in the distance, screaming for John.

John could do nothing but call after him desperately, tears filling his eyes even as the pale silhouette faded away from his vision like a firefly being snuffed out from existence.

 

With each passing day in which Sherlock did not find him, John's belief in his own memories became fainter and fainter. By the time the summer ended and John was loaded into his family's car, the little boy's eyes no longer held the hopeful shine of childhood. He clutched his velveteen hedgehog, but didn't cuddle it to his chin. His lips were a fine line of inexplicable mourning. Sadness over a boy that didn't exist.

And right before they left, John's mother made his grandma tell him one more time the first adult lesson John ever learned.

That no matter what he would like, no matter how hard he believed, Faerie tales and myths did not exist.

And John, reading the old woman's face, understood the hidden message he was being told.

That there was no magic.

 

That everything in the world was exactly as he saw it.

And the day he believed that, the little boy found the strange song that had been haunting him faded. Disappeared the further away they drove from the sea.

He told himself that he wasn't sad it vanished.

Told himself this even as tears filled his eyes, and soundlessly John cried into his stuffed animal, feeling the scar on his arm pulse once more desperately, tendril fingers slipping and breaking from him.

Separating him from his dreams that would be left behind like bits of seaweed clinging to a dry shore at low tide.

 

****

Faerie tales disappeared and were replaced with medical textbooks and the bone structure of a Human skeleton. Apple juice became hot coffee, and bedtime tuck-ins became a melody of gunfire as John signed up for the army. The sounds of the ocean faded away for the sounds of desert, of hot sand underneath his feet, and of Afghani wildlife humming deep into the night. John grew up, became a man that could wade through blood as well as sand without thought, caught up in the pounding of his heart and the thrum of adrenaline in his veins. He knew the song of the desert like the back of his hand, could recite the waves of dust that came in from the west and blew to the east, swirling and curving over their barracks.

 

Any memories he may have had about a different song, a different ocean were buried deep, too far to find.

 

 

At least until a bullet ripped through his shoulder, and John for just a moment, thought he could hear a distant and strangely familiar cry.

 


	8. Echoes Of A Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). :)

_My heart is pierced by Cupid_  
 _I disdain all glittering gold_  
 _There is nothing can console me_  
 _But my jolly sailor bold._  
  
 _His hair it hangs in ringlets_  
 _His eyes as black as coal_  
 _My happiness attend him_  
 _Wherever he may go._   _ **~ My Jolly Sailor Bold, Unknown**_

 

 

“It will be good for you, to get away from the city for a while.”

John did his best not to roll his eyes at the statement, instead clenching his hands between his knees and inhaling deeply so he wouldn't say something he'd later on regret. The chill in the room seemed to permeate into his fingertips, causing them to tap coolly against the skin of his knuckle. A restless movement, mentally ticking time away.

John's face was light and shadow, monochrome and bright, starry-sky blue as his lips pursed reluctantly, and he gruffly murmured

“I don't think so. The… the nightmares. They're always worse… when I think of that place.” _That night_ lay unspoken before them, the story of his childhood trauma a topic of much discussion, even before he'd been shipped off to war. His therapist, Ella smiled her professional smile at him, and her pen clicked sharply as she scribbled something down in her yellow notepad. John resisted the urge to look down and read what would be there. He knew already. _A reluctance to interact with others. Trust issues._ Always variations of the same thing, time and again. Ever since he'd been first introduced to therapy, due to his lingering fears as a child. Irrational things, sleepwalking shadows that he imagined would come to take him away, their sweet songs at once a vague memory as much as a hallucination. Sometimes, he'd wake to find himself halfway down the stairs of his home, jacket and shoes on.

As if he'd been planning to leave somewhere.

Years had passed since there had been such a strong episode, the war having drained his body of even the ability to dream. Yet John felt it hovering now in his gut, a sense of deep unyielding worry, knotted in coils under his skin. An itch that had yet to relieve itself. All because his therapist was trying to suggest he go to the place where the trauma of his childhood all began. He looked blankly at the carpet underneath his feet, shoes simple black. Dark against an ugly but professional beige.

Ella's voice was soft but firm. Her hands folded themselves in her lap, and her dark gaze was steady where John's wasn't. A calm in the middle of a silent storm.

 

“You haven't even seen your grandmother since you were very small, John and part of that has to do with the fact that your parents wouldn't let you. I know her passing was hard for you, despite this. But her will left you the cottage to go to if you were _'ever in need of refuge'._ John, you need a place of familiarity. A place that you consider safe. London isn't it, not yet at least. The blog which I wanted you to write in has been empty now for a month.”

Nothing to write about.

So little to say.

 

What was the point? John's only point of interest had been fighting in Afghanistan, and the horrors he had witnessed in his time away were not the sort of things one could simply type out online. To do so would feel somehow disrespectful. To try anyway would only further depress him. And writing about his childhood seemed like rehashing old arguments, digging back into wounds that had already healed, if badly. There was no point in writing about how his sister was now an alcoholic like their father had been, no reason to talk about how his grandmother had had a brain tumour and he still hadn't been allowed to see her.

 

There was no way to describe the nameless feeling of desperation when he thought about how his mother never looked at him quite the same way after 'the incident'. No way to speak of how foolish and weak he had felt just because his brain had made up someone who never existed in a moment of desperation and fear. No words to describe how insane he felt when sometimes, he thought he could hear that voice, deeper and older but still undeniably _Sherlock._ How over time, it became less pleading, and more bitter and lonely when it called his name. How was one expected to write about the feeling of going slowly insane within stretches of silence? How did one tell another that the only way they felt normal was when there was a gun pressed in his hands, and another aimed at his head?

 

John didn't speak, instead making a non-committal noise of apology even while inside he could care less. Ella didn't appear convinced when he chanced a look at her through his lashes. Instead her sigh was one of mild exasperation, and she seemed to collect herself before she tried again to convince him.

 

She smiled, attempting to be reassuring. Trying to show that she wasn't fed up even though she very obviously was. John didn't really have it in himself to blame her. He was being stubborn, he knew. Stubbornness was the only thing he really had left to his dignity, and he clung to it even when he was unable to take the stairs due to his damn leg, or when he was incapable of sleeping due to the haunting songs that plagued his mind as much as gunfire and blood. Stubbornness was his default, his resistance in a world he frequently found he had little control over.

It was his way of holding on when all he wanted was to lie down and give up.

“This could mean you'd finally have no excuse not to write something. Travelling is interesting. Something could happen that makes everything suddenly seem a thousand times more fascinating.” Ella was all but pleading, her eyes shining as she looked at him. She needed him to make progress, needed him to wake up and be if not healed, at the very least the John Watson she had known before he went off to war. More than anything, she needed to know that he was listening to her, at least taking her words into consideration. Like many therapists John had known, she needed to know she was helping.

He laughed then. It was a dry, raspy chuckle, the kind that made his shoulder twinge. He didn't realise his fingers traced the silver-purple ring of puckered flesh on the inside of his wrist when he finally met her gaze. His eyes were a deep, bitterly amused blue. His scarred wrist flexed even as his fingers tightened over the handle of his cane.

 

“Nothing ever happens to me.”

 

****

The moonlight rose on the surface of the water, a pale and ghostly orb over the darkness of the waves. Like the pale circlet of a locket it was half-shrouded by cloud, and in its shadow something moved with sinuous grace to an outcropping of rock, hoisting itself with pale limbs into the cradle of stone.

The creature was made of porcelain and blue sapphire, deep onyx curls sticking wetly to his forehead, contrasting sharply to the small droplet earring that glittered against his throat. The jewel was the colour of cyan, blue with an inner pulsating green, and reflected his eyes in hue as under the starlight as he stretched his limbs towards the sky. The muscles in his back were strong, evident from a lifetime of swimming and scarred from an existence in exile. Though the piercing in his ear denoted his royal status, the swirling scar on his chest exposed Sherlock's exile.

A prince banished from his home, and yet he lingered on the edges of his pod's territory, like a clinging vine stuck to edge of a wall of bricks. He seated himself cross-legged, modesty only covered by the silken edge of his seal's skin tied loosely about his hips. In his hands was a polished conch, its colour a dusky pink and sand-gold. The man raised it to his bowed lips, blowing into its end so that a mournful cry echoed across the sea, travelling across the waves in a low and moaning call. After a moment, he repeated the action. Two cries, an alert. A greeting.

For a second the waves were still silent, save for their gentle lapping against the rock and Sherlock's bare toes. The salt-flecked droplets of water dripped from his hair in pearly orbs, and his curls as they dried sprung away from his face to snarl themselves together and give him an expression of a wild animal poised for hunting. Then, a ripple in the water, and the edge of a tail striking the waves to propel a creature forward, and Sherlock found himself eye to eye with a large, dark brown seal.

The creature was smooth, sleekly so, and its whiskered face nosed over Sherlock carefully before blowing at him salt brine and hot breath, making the man wrinkle his nose in distaste. In response the seal whuffled at him crossly, swimming about the rock in a circular motion before it dove underwater. When it resurfaced, Sherlock was looking at his older brother's pale and unimpressed face, and he shuffled reluctantly aside to let the man take a seat on his rock, freckled muscles pulling him sinuously beside him.

Mycroft didn't have an earring, instead his arm glinted with a silver band, embossed with the swirling spells and designs of their people. After all, he was next in line for the throne. The precious stones embedded in the piece of jewellery shimmered wetly, reds and golds, the colours Mycroft had chosen for his upcoming reign. Compared to Sherlock's blue and gold, they seemed to glow with a controlling sort of power. Ordered and immovable. His brother wasted no time, an unimpressed eyebrow arched towards Sherlock's thin and beaten-looking frame. He spoke in their language with fluid ease, clicks and chittering squeaks like the barking of dolphins.

 

“You haven't been this close to the east borders in some time, brother. Is it really so close to the anniversary?”

Anniversary of what, neither of them had to say. In response, Sherlock spoke in clipped, emotionless tones.

 

“A week from now. He would be an adult by now.” Then unspoken went between them, things left unsaid that Sherlock had considered before. Things that flitted across his brain like puzzle pieces, questions with no whole.

_Would he still have blonde hair? Would his smiles still be so intriguing? He'd probably not cry so much now…_

 

“If he's alive at all.” His brother's words were meant to be as gentle as the elder Holmes was able to make them, but still his younger brother flinched as though struck. The gravel tone of his voice was low and rumbling.

 

“No, he's alive. The Bond is still there, it still holds. If he were dead, it would have rotted away by now.”

 

 _Pity._ The more bitter side of him lamented. He ignored it in favour of looking at the elegant lines of his hands, clenched about his knees and interlocking them together. Holding him in place. Beside him Mycroft shifted, uttering a small sigh of resignation through his nose. In truth, he had known the answer to his unspoken question already. It could be read on Sherlock to anyone who looked into his magical trace, painted in invisible lines and holds of seams tied together when the young man before him had been just a pup. A terrible accident that had cost the Selkie everything.

Not for the first time, Mycroft tried vainly to reason with his brother, the self-imposed exile evident in the man's too-thin frame, and in his eyes that were filled with mistrust and wounded, animal intelligence.

“Come home, brother. We can break The Bond, at least. Ally our pod with another tribe-”

 

“By selling me off like cattle in a marriage proposal that no sane tribe will take.” Sherlock spat, blue eyes blazing as he turned to look at Mycroft with an arched brow of defiance. Daring to tell him that his deduction was not rooted in truth.

 

“Breaking The Bond will only leave me unable to ever form a romantic attachment ever again, and as a prince I am required to marry and eventually either bear children or aid in the bearing of them. I will be unable to do either, and feel no love for the poor Mate that is saddled with me. I am reckless. I am impulsive, and I am in no way a good leader for our tribe. Luckily, Mummy had you first.” The unspoken, other objection Sherlock might have voiced if he had been younger. Less angry. Less cold and hard to his own emotions from living alone for so long.

_If The Bond is broken without John's consent, then wherever he is the Human will die._

 

Weakness. Sentiment. Possessiveness. The amount of pride that demanded Sherlock present his Mate to the rest of his pod was all instinct, but it still hummed in his blood like fire.

Even if there was no Mate to show.

The Shame of that he convinced himself was also nothing more than a biological flaw.

After a moment of silence, Mycroft sighed in acquiescence.

“Mummy sends her regards, still. As does father. They both miss you, despite what you would believe. They just have a tribe to rule, and the political situation…”

 

“You don't need to justify their actions, Mycroft. They make perfect sense to me.”

And the worst part was to Sherlock… they did.

The pair said no more to one another, merely watching the moon as it rose higher into the sky. When dawn came, their silhouettes were gone. Like twin ghosts, they faded into the ethereal golden blue of the waves around them. Wisps hiding from the rising of the sun.

 

****

The cottage looked much the same as he remembered it. Still slightly crooked, still sitting on the beach like a widow waiting for their husband to return from the sea. John gripped his luggage in his hands tightly, a small frown on his features as he took in the simple slats of the structure, peeling paint perhaps just a tad more faded than his memory had served. A small black rolling case, a faded green army-issue duffel bag, and a frankly atrocious pink suitcase loaned to him from Harry at one point or another were the only things that accompanied him on the shore. Within them were most of his belongings. Clothes, a few books, the usual. And tucked away his back-up option, if this didn't work. Which was quite likely, in his mind. Though the sig couldn't have been as heavy as he believed, the ex-soldier thought he could feel its weight, pressing through the hard plastic shell of the luggage. Its presence was as much a comfort as it was a burden.

John looked up at the cottage looming before him and sighed, counting the amount of steps he'd have to climb with his cane just to get to the front door.

 

“Not as young as I used to be.” He murmured to himself, even though he was only thirty-three. It felt like he was an old man as he took each step one at a time, testing the rotted wood carefully before putting his full weight on it. The weather-worn slats creaked in the familiar tones of his childhood, and before John could bring himself to step inside the old place, he turned once to look at the ocean in the distance.

 

If he squinted, he could just make out the rock face, shielding the cove on the other side. The red-black stone glinted wetly from salt-spray, shimmering in the setting of the sun.

Night time.

 

And the man shivered, feeling a chill weave itself up his spine like a coiled, clinging plant. John found himself scrambling for the rusted keys, the lock tumbling into place as he turned the brass handle and pushed his way inside. He was met with the silence of a place he hadn't visited in over a decade. The stillness of the air made him freeze, musty smell seeming to cling to the very hall he walked into.

The young man drew a slow breath through his lips, eyes peering into the dim darkness. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Nothing breathed. The warmth he had remembered from childhood was gone from the place. Empty. Replaced with a crawling shadow that seemed to hang over the place like a cloud.

 

John blinked, tongue running across his lower lip even as he settled his luggage in the hall. The sound of it dropping from his fingers was loud in the silence, and a cloud of dust rose up from the pink suitcase's wheels, causing him to sneeze.

No one called his name.

No song appeared.

There was no lingering presence of his grandmother, not even in the tacky wallpaper that lined the hallway.

No stories were whispered.

And yet John couldn't escape the shivering in his body, and he clutched his arms about his middle, as if seeking comfort from something unknown. His thoughts were filled with sarcasm, heavy and contrite.

_A place of refuge indeed._

_****_

Everything was coated in a fine sheet of dust. Marking the passage of time like an old friend, it lined the white sheets that John tugged free from the furniture, making his eyes water and his lungs spasm in coughs. He held an old dishtowel to his face for some protection, pulling at the curtains to let in the setting sun so that it streamed warm and golden onto the carpet by his feet. At first, the material appeared a dull grey. However, when the ex-soldier grabbed the carpet and brought it to the front step to shake, a pile of dust flew from its textured surface, and John found himself looking at a shag rug the colour of coral blue.

Many things were much the same, the mirrors refusing to show his reflection until he would run a hand over them, the many hand-carved chests looking black and muted until he set to polishing them with a rag. Once John set his mind to make a place somewhat habitable, he didn't stop. Slowly, the man worked his way to the large fireplace in the centre of the living room, and he knelt to check and see if the flue was clear and relatively clean.

He was rather surprised to see it was.

Briefly delighted, he grabbed one of the logs from its stack by the mantel of the fireplace, tossing it into the grill before standing painfully to his feet to go hunting for matches. He had brought none of his own, but he could recall how his grandmother had used to hide them in the top cabinet – away from where curious little hands might reach.

Now his hunt proved fruitful, and John grinned to himself even as he clutched the worn box between his fingers and returned to his project. He tore some of the newspaper that had been lining the cardboard boxes that stood all around him (holding trinkets small enough to be packed away) crumpling it into a ball before lighting the end. The wood was dry enough to spark almost instantly, and soon the ex-army doctor felt warmth heat his cheeks even as he sighed in satisfaction at a job well done. A cheery little glow comforted John in the silence as he returned to working, clearing away space even as outside, the moon glowed pallid and pale. On he toiled, humming a tune he didn't quite recall learning under his breath as he stacked boxes and took out pictures, setting them back into their original places.

John didn't notice when he had stopped humming, instead only pausing when he realised he had. For the last dying echoes of his song seemed to hang in the cottage eerily, and lingered on his lips lyrics almost forgotten.

_John is mine. He belongs to me and the sea._

_Come with me… Come with me…_

 

The smashing of a particularly ugly photo of his sister satisfied John's nerves enough that the melody was cut short in his ears. The tinkling of glass against hardwood drowned out his lingering feeling of fear.

****

He came to the same place every night around this time of the year. Sherlock couldn't really help it, although he tried his best to stay away. To not linger on his own failures. Still, for two weeks he indulged himself, allowing his fins to carry him to the shoreline, to touch the familiar sand with pale toes and seat himself cautiously bare upon the sparkling land. There he would allow himself to suffer in silence, to mourn a Mate that he had never even had the chance to know. It was an irrational sadness, but an uncontrollable one. The Selkie sang to himself softly his own grief, his lullaby haunting across the waves as it spiralled out in the dark.

_Lonely… so lonely… I am ashamed…_

_Lost my treasure, lost my treasure…_

 

But as the night would go on, Sherlock would also feel his rage. His fury at Humans, his own anger at his pod. His melody would warp to darkness, and he would spit his lyrics towards the foam, watching the waves roil and froth in response to his rage.

_Not my fault!_

_Cruel Humans! Stupid, savage creatures!_

He would all but screech, feeling again the wounds of his childhood, how his own family had driven him from his home, scarring his body and beating him into exile. His song would become a battle-cry, and the blackened waves would rise with his anger, crashing down on the shore like footfalls stomping in frenzied rhythm.

_Took him from me!_

_Took him…_

_MINE._

_Stole him from me._

… _Lonely…_

 

Until finally, Sherlock's rage would drain, and he would collapse onto the sand. Knees tucked to his chest, the Selkie would allow himself a few, quiet tears. Unlike a Human's, they did not taste like salt. They tasted pure and warm.

And the creature would look less like a powerful monster and more like a pup that had been forced to grow into an adult, as he clutched his cloak to his face and derived a little comfort from the softness of his own pelt.

Selkies did not do well alone. They were not meant to swim in exile.

And though Sherlock would deny ever needing his family, he still found himself wishing for at the very least the company of his brother.

Even if Mycroft could no longer hug him. His voice might have brought what little comfort would be needed to soothe the ache inside the banished prince's chest. 


	9. Pulled Like High Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). :)
> 
> Next chapter Sherlock and John will be meeting! :P  
> Enjoy!

 

_From Tower Hill to Blackwall_   
_I'll wander, weep and moan_   
_All for my jolly sailor_   
_Until he sails home._   
  
_My heart is pierced by Cupid_   
_I disdain all glittering gold_   
_There is nothing can console me_   
_But my jolly sailor bold. **\- My Jolly Sailor Bold, Unknown**_

 

 

The crash of the ocean waves woke John from the edge of a nightmare, leaving him in a cold sweat as he woke with a low cry. The sheets tangled about his ankles, momentarily immobilising him, and his brain immediately muttered _threatdangerduckforcover_ before he could reign in the sharp, biting panic like a horse biting its bit. Clutching at his chest through the thin material of his sleep shirt, John panted, swallowing great, huge gulping breaths of air.

 

He wasn't sure exactly when the trembling along his frame began to shake itself apart into sobs.

Wasn't sure when he curled into himself, clutching the woollen duvet to his cheek and refusing to allow himself to scream or cry. The irregular pounding of his heart thudded dully in his ears, a constant drum that slowed only when he forced every muscle within his body to relax.

When John finally could calm down, his quivering turned into the shaking of rage. Suddenly, the cool chill of his sweat was too warm, the material of the blanket too stifling. He kicked away the covers viciously, rising to his feet.

 

The rattle of the rusted pipes of the shower soothed away the image left imprinted in the back of John's eyes. The steam washed away the forceful grime of panic that shone on his skin, coating it.

The pressure of the water obliterated all thought.

 

All knowledge.

It washed away blood.

Bullets.

Desert.

 

And finally, _finally_ after the hot water ran cold and John was left shivering against the tile wall, the shower washed away fear.

 

****

The deck was half-rotted through, upon closer inspection. Mould riddled the wood green and grey and black, sinking deep into the organic material and creating asymmetrical rings of multicoloured damage. John eyed it reluctantly, blue eyes critical even as he rose back to his full height with a groan and a twinge of pain along his knee. He would have to get the wood of the deck replaced, he decided, or come a few months there would be mice burrowing into the soft frame of the house. As much as John didn't mind sharing the cottage, it felt strangely sacrilegious to let his grandmother's memory be desecrated in any way. It meant a walk into town, though, and the prospect caused John's nose to wrinkle involuntarily in distaste.

 

It was unlikely anyone would recognise him; it had been years after all. Still, the thought of accidentally brushing paths with anyone who might see his face and call after him –

It sent something unpleasant twisting in the soldier's gut.

John could recall one of the countless notes Ella had made, back before she had realised he could read her writing upside down.

 

_Showing signs of self-imposed isolation. Unwilling to communicate for any great length. PTSD and depression?_

 

That question mark had only too soon disappeared.

 

But there was no choice, and John was never one to exactly wallow in self-pity if he could avoid it. So it was with a rather heavy countenance that his shoulders squared themselves, and his hand wrapped tightly about the handle of his cane. His lips tightened in minute concentration. Even if he really didn't feel like seeing anyone, there was no guarantee he would be forced to interact. Chin up, remain stoic. Strong.

 

He told himself this even as his leg twinged his pain as he descended down the stairs of the deck, and his left hand trembled minutely at his side.

If he hurried, he might be even able to get back before nightfall.

****

But of course, almost nothing ever works the way one would like.

John didn't recognise the man that called out to him at first, yet still every single one of his muscles seized in irritation and disappointment when Mike Stamford of _all people_ recognised him and called out his name. The army doctor's smile was about as forced as if it was being birthed, and his eyes were pained as with false politeness he responded to his childhood friend's greeting.

"Ah, Mike. I didn't…"

 

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely, to which Mike's ruddy cheeks pinkened further as he chuckled ruefully.

 

"Yeah, I know. I got fat." He patted his widened girth gently and grimaced. John made what he hoped was a sound of denial, even though privately he agreed. However, it wasn't like he was one to say anything, he could tell by his old friend's careful glance that the opposite had happened to him. He had lost weight, and not in the good way. He knew what Mike was seeing, looking him over. A broken man, a fragile state.

 

He couldn't quite find the words to deny his assumptions.

 

Despite John's reluctance, the two men struck up a stilted conversation. Much had changed since the death of Mike's brother, and both men had their own stories to tell about their teen years and where they went once they went their separate ways. Mike had apparently gone on to live with his Uncle Sean, and spent most of his life not too far from the very beach in which John had been attacked. He had then left for London for a time, to study medicine and to interact with others his age. He had apparently come back to visit Sean, as well as some old school mates. When the man managed to needle John into revealing the fact that he had gone to war, Mike's large blue eyes had widened further and he had whistled lowly in his throat.

 

"You've been busy! Here I am becoming a simple GP and you've been out getting shot at. What happened to bring you back?"

John's smile had not been kind as he had stated plainly, "I got shot."

 

Watching Stamford blush red from the roots of his hair to the back of his neck was as satisfying as it made John riddled with guilt. When Mike pleaded to make the slight up to him with a coffee, the army doctor accepted.

But no latte could make up for the way his old friend looked at him with new-found pity, blue eyes clouded with something unreadable as he looked into the rim of his cup.

 

****

 

"You should join the family for a bonfire. We're having one tonight."

John hedged, trying to find an excuse. But it was clear that Mike was convinced he needed socialisation, and in a kind but misguided attempt at help he wouldn't be deterred. The man stood firm against John's evasions, and when the army doctor finally made the rather frail excuse that "he didn't have anything to bring" Mike finally rolled his eyes and interrupted.

 

"There'll be plenty to eat and plenty to drink. My wife's a chef, and we've never been exactly short on fire since the invention of matches." His blue eyes twinkled briefly, then darkened into something more serious.

 

"Please, John? Your grandmother, she was a good person. She wouldn't have wanted… " But Mike trailed off, scratching the back of his head and shrugging almost sheepishly. John's shoulders slumped forward as he sighed. His voice was laced with resignation.

 

"Yeah, okay. Where are we meeting?"

 

Mike's smile was like dawn breaking through a haze of cloud. Full of innocence and relief. His voice was warm and eager, like a puppy finally convincing its owner to come out and play.

"We can have it right on your beach, if you want."

 

John didn't think anything of it when without hesitation he replied, "Yeah, sure."

 

****

 

He had forgotten how beautiful a sunset could be. During his days in the army, John had never much had time to look at the many sunsets of the dusted wasteland in which he found himself soaked in blood and sweat and grime. Yet there it was, shining in his eyes and touching the aqua-blue waves that lapped gently to shore and turning them translucent-gold.

 

It almost made John forget the fact that he was watching Mike crouching in the sand, trying to get a fire going even as his wife cradled an overly-energetic toddler to her hip (who seemed to alternate between giggling and screaming). That, and the fact that almost half of the town seemed to have arrived on his doorstep.

 

When a small town hears that there is to be celebration, people tend to gather in swarms. John had forgotten this rule, having grown up more in the city, far away towards London. He was used to indifference, used to the cold atmosphere that people adapted to in a large, heavily populated atmosphere. Instead, John was surrounded by the hardy, rustic kind of camaraderie that involved entirely too much touching and smiling for his current mental state, people he barely knew reminiscing about his younger days and greeting him with embraces that he fought to extricate himself from. It was an air of warmth and invitation, but he was a greyscale painting amongst a pastel model of colour.

 

He found himself staring at the setting sun, chin cupped in one hand and a beer balanced in the other palm. He didn't taste it going down, humming to himself even as the sun slipped away, swallowed by the ocean's wide reach. A drop of fire drowning for fear of night.

 

John didn't realise that he was being included in the conversation until Mike sat by his side, clapping the expanse of his back smartly. The army doctor startled, heart rate turning to normal as he saw who he was being introduced to. John recognised the shape of the woman's jaw, though her hair was now pure white and her once-bright brown eyes were clouded with age and time.

He found himself rising to his feet to greet Mrs Hudson with a smile, a bloom of warmth pooling in his chest unexpectedly at the sight of the frail old woman. And old friend of her grandmother's, John could remember many a summer having begged and wheedled his way into getting sweets for free from her shop. He was rather startled to realise that he was now taller than the woman (though he by no means towered over her). Somehow she seemed so much smaller, so much more breakable than the hearty woman he had grown up all but terrorising.

 

"Oh, John! It's been ages!" The old woman giggled warmly, voice rising in excitement even as she clutched at his hands. Her enthusiasm melted away some of John's coldness, and he found himself softening in his posture even as he smiled at her joy.

"So long! I mean you were merely a boy when I last saw you! And your grandma, bless her soul, was always going on about what a saint you were! I mean you were a little devil back then, too, at times, sneaking into my flour when I wasn't looking, but you were always so sweet about cleaning it up." She beamed up at him, the lines of her face gentle and inviting. Mike smiled behind her, noticing John slowly easing into the conversation. He quietly left to give the two time to catch up.

 

"It's good to see you, Mrs Hudson. Truly. Sorry it's been so long… I've been… I've been rather busy."

 

Mrs Hudson nodded sagely, as if she suspected as much. Her weathered hands gathered together to clasp towards her chest, and her voice was decidedly lower as she murmured

"My condolences, John. I didn't mean to get too carried away… It's just I've missed your grandmother so and when I saw your face… We were childhood friends, John. It's hard, having everyone leave you. If you know what I mean."

 

John swallowed, throat suddenly tight as he looked at the small woman before him. He knew the look on her face, the sadness in it was something he shared, like a jagged piece of pipe stuck in his chest. Somehow, he suspected Mrs Hudson could see it in him, too, and the two reminisced for a moment in the memory of the feisty old woman that had once stood strong and bright on the beach like she was one with it.

 

"She would have been so proud of you, John. She worshipped the ground you walked on, always her favourite." The old woman confided, patting his arm sympathetically before stepping away and brushing at her eyes. A part of John wanted to lean into the old woman's touch, another part kept him distant. Because this was not his grief, this was someone else's. He hadn't seen his grandmother since he had been small. He had no right to mourn her death, no right to feel the stinging in the back of his eyes and throat. Yet still he felt it, lingering under his skin. An indelible sound that he could not accurately express. A part of John wondered if she still lingered in the wood of the cottage, hoped for it. She had always believed in magic, if anyone could find a way to haunt a place, it would have been his grandmother. The thought was more comforting than it should have been.

 

"You have her features. Something in your eyes." Mrs Hudson nodded firmly, seeming to gather a hold of herself as her back straightened and she smoothed out the folds of her soft cardigan and blouse. "And those eyes shouldn't look like everyone you've ever known has left you. It's just not proper.”

She smiled, and though it was a bit watery, John found himself returning it. With one last pat to his arm, Mrs Hudson turned to go. Her parting words were not unkind.

 

"Feel free to visit my shop any time you need something, dear. I learnt much from your grandmother. Never let it be said that an old sea witch can't be useful every now and again."

And she winked fondly before she turned to go, walking towards the bonfire just as it sparked, catching on its kindle and alighting into flame.

 

****

 

He didn't mean to get plastered.

It sort of happened, after a bunch of the men and women from town coerced him into a drinking game after the children had all been sent home. John had never been terribly lucky at cards, and he soon found the cup they handed him filled with an impressive concoction that had he been a little more sober to begin with he likely would not have drunk.

 

Vodka and something that tasted vaguely like lemonade lined his lips as he licked them, a warm tingling bubbling in his blood that made him feel as if he were made of fireworks. It had been awhile since he had felt so utterly sloshed, and he embraced it even as more and more people turned in for the night, smiling and laughing and finally opening up to the rest of the town. Most of the people had, if not known him as a child, at least known his grandmother, and as a result they were quick and jovial in opening up their tightly-knit little circles.

 

John listened to stories about the fisherman of the town and how they were complaining due to a loss of population of their fish, and quietly supported them in their struggles to make ends meet. He recounted some of his lighter war stories, and caused Mike's eyes to round impossibly as he told the tale of how once he wound up in bed with three different women over three different nights. He spoke and spoke, weaving tales unconsciously like his grandmother would of, but his were not of magic and myth. They were of his life, his own pain and his own adventures. John liked to pretend nothing ever happened to him, but the truth was it was only an illusion he bought into when faced with the harsh reality of day. At night his eyes glimmered like the ocean itself, just as dark and just as filled with longing as he recounted the battle and the exhilaration and the terrible, _terrible_ cost of war.

 

He only stopped for breath when his drink finally ran out, and he realised that his bladder was full to bursting. Apologising before rising to his feet, the army doctor gripped his cane, and made his way down the beach. The shadows of the people stretched and twisted as he stumbled blearily to a copse of trees, forgetting in his intoxicated state that his own house was not so far away.

It was when he unzipped his fly, leaning against a solid birch that John heard it, moaning softly on the wind. The hair on the back of his arms and neck prickled, and he froze wide-eyed as the moon burst from a covering of clouds and spilt across his form.

He could just make out the words, and the sound of them left his mouth feeling dry.

 

_Where is my treasure… Where is my Heart?_

_Come with me... Come with me... Love the sea..._

_Where is the thing I consider most precious?_

_Sea... oh... Sea..._

 

John didn't realise it when against his will, like a moth drawn to a flame, his feet started to move.

 


	10. Drowned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). :)

 

 

 _They dug his grave with a silver spade,_  
 _To my aye storm a-long!_  
 _The shroud of finest silk was made;_  
 _Aye, aye, aye, Mister Storm a-long._  
  
 _They lowered him with a golden chain,_  
 _To my aye storm a-long!_  
 _Their eyes all dim with more than rain;_  
 _Aye, aye, aye, Mister Storm a-long._  
  
 _Of captain brave, he was the best,_  
 _To my aye storm a-long!_  
 _But now he's gone and is at rest;_  
 _Aye, aye, aye, Mister Storm a-long._ **- _Stormalong, Unknown_**

 

 

The sand was bleached like bone.

It contrasted sharply with the tan of John's feet as he stumbled forward, half delirious and so very, _very_ sloshed. He kicked it up under his toes, bare feet feeling the grainy texture and reminding him sharply that he had left his shoes by the safety of fire and light. In his eyes, it seemed to glitter like pixie dust.

The rocks in contrast were dark black, slick as his hands gripped their natural handholds, hoisting himself up and over onto the other side of the beach automatically. His inebriated state made it difficult, but somehow his body became less like a pile of disjointed limbs and more like a functioning person, so long as he didn't stop and think. So long as he closed his eyes, listening to the song that drifted over him like a dark wave capping over his head.

Drowning him.

 

 _Sea, oh sea..._ _Will you find him for me?_

 _I seek the one I chose, the one who is_ _Mine..._

_Can you bring him to me? Can you find my treasure?_

 

God.

The same voice, same wistful, beautiful tone. Yet now it was deep enough to mimic the rumbling of a thunderstorm, and the voice sent shivers through John's heart, causing it to tremble behind his ribs as he gasped, clutching the stone beneath his fingers.

It sounded like danger.

Worse, it shivered through the army doctor's blood, and for one heightened, dizzying moment, it sounded to John like the very essence of _sex._

A kind of seduction that in his weakened and befuddled state, he couldn't even hope to resist. Closing his eyes, like a sleepwalker John continued forward.

 

Unthinking.

Uncaring.

And strangely... so calm.

 

****

 

Sherlock could feel when he had ensnared someone in his song. There was a certain kind of echo that occurred when it happened, a reverberation of the blood that caused his body to sing with anticipation, made his eyes widen in a predatory way. A sweetly-sick kind of hunger that made itself known as he felt the draw of Human life in the distance.

 

Careful not to stop his singing, the Selkie's head tilted to the side in curiosity, turning slightly towards the tingling sensation he felt, like blood hanging in the air. With the catch of the Human his own heart sang sweetly, silently urging the lean predator onwards even as he crouched in the sand, long limbs sinuously folding themselves, preparing to pounce as he backed towards the water.

 

First rule of hunting:

Always try and remain in the waves. His kind had a distinct advantage when it came to their ability to swim (he tried not to think of who taught him that).

 

Sherlock felt the cool ocean water lap his calves even as he waded outwards towards the edge of the outcropping of rocks that jutted out and divided the beach, keeping himself hidden in their shadow even as he kept up his crooning lullaby. His fingers gripped the stone tightly as his blue eyes shimmered in the dark.

 

His song rippled in the night as the moon turned the waves rolling onto the sand into tarnished silver.

 

 _Come,_ _oh come_ _, my dearest one._

_I hunger for your song. Sing with me, become one and you'll see_

_That you've been mine all along..._

 

The Selkie could hear the Human's footsteps, scratching as they climbed the stone to his side of the beach. From their clumsy rhythm and pace, Sherlock deduced the Human was inebriated. Rather heavily so. Such easy prey.

Forgetting about his loneliness, the Selkie licked his lips in a sudden stirring of hunger. It had been _so long_ since his last hunt... and here was a tasty morsel, full of rich energy that seemed to pulse even when its owner still remained unseen...

He could afford to indulge, to play a little bit. Just a taste after all. Mycroft would overlook it if he hunted on the pod's territory, provided he didn't actually _kill_ the Human....

 

Just drown him a little.

Drink his fear.

_Yes..._

 

And the creature's cerulean eyes slitted, cat-like and predatory as his melody became more insistent.

 

_No time to delay, my love, my love._

_I want you, I need you now._

_Let me hold you, dance with you,_

_and I will teach you the sound of the sea._

 

The Human finally crested the rock, and Sherlock soon found himself looking at the silhouette of a man. It was too dark for even the Selkie to make out his features, but upon the crest of the rock he could see that he was short for a male, and that his aura of energy was unusually bright. Golden, like Sherlock imagined the sun might feel like, if he had ever been able to taste its kiss. The shadow swayed as if he was having trouble staying on his feet, and his leg trembled minutely.

 

_Limp._

 

God, but this catch would be so _simple._

 

Sherlock was no longer thinking about stealth, he slowly swam out of the shadows alluringly, moonlight illuminating his features even as the man slid down the rock face, sloshed and stumbling forward drunkenly even while muttering something unintelligible under his breath. The Selkie saw the shadow stiffen as he made himself visible by the light of the full moon, a ragged breath seeming to tear from the man's throat.

Sherlock guessed it was from surprise, although it was rare that a Human could speak if they were already so far into his hold. He accounted it on a strong will and the fact that the Selkie was barely even trying.

 

It was simply too easy.

 

 _Come with_ _me..._ _Come with me..._

 

But the shadow was suddenly still, the man's heels digging into the sand even as his body strained forward, trying to obey Sherlock's commands. The Selkie frowned minutely, putting a little more force into his words even as he drew slightly closer to shore, rising to his feet so that the waves lapped about his hips, concealing his lower half as he reached out a beckoning hand. He all but purred his order, layering on his command as impatience filled his chest.

 

_Come now... don't be shy..._

 

And the shadow let out a low, pained moan, and his feet against his will slid forward, his entire body seeming to fight the action. Yet even if he was complying, he should not have been _fighting_ in the first place, and Sherlock found a frown tugging his features even as he continued to sing. Nervously, the Selkie glanced about the length of the beach. No other Humans were around... but this was taking too long. Too much work, too suspicious. If someone came...

 

His cloak was still on the beach, tucked safely behind some driftwood. He would not reach it in time. This time, Sherlock did not ease.

He pushed.

The order came to his lips, steely and snarling. Forceful.

_**Come. Now.** _

 

And John, finally stumbling into the moonlight with a yelp as his legs all but gave way underneath him, found himself crawling uncontrollably towards his nightmare.

 

****

 

There was a moment in which all songs, all sound seemed to cut off, and both Selkie and man looked at each other, one with eyes filled with shock, the other with eyes filled with fear. John knelt in the sand inches from the water, hands gripping the grains tightly in his palms even as his entire body leant forward, bones seeming intent of bending and breaking their way towards the moonlit figure haloed in the water.

 

Sherlock's mouth was actually parted in stunned surprise. The Selkie found himself staring at the hunched figure of a man that a moment ago he had believed had left to never return, years older from the memory of the boy he had stored away in the depths of his mind.

Yet it was undeniably, irrevocably _John Watson._

 

Because there, trembling as much as his wrist was, the sleeve of the worn Human before him was pushed up, revealing the shimmering silver _U_ that only Sherlock's teeth could have possibly left behind.

 

And though he was older, the way John looked up at him, blue eyes clouded with confusion as if he wasn't sure Sherlock wasn't just a wisp of errant imagination, the tone of his voice was still the same as the little boy he had once been as he whispered in a bewildered whimper, “S-Sherlock?”

 

With the sound of his name, time became unfrozen. And Sherlock, suddenly filled with an instinct so savage and vicious that it all but blinded him, leapt from the water like a snake to grab the Mate he thought he had lost.

 

****

 

Terrifying.

 

That would be how John described it, being suddenly dragged towards the ocean like he weighed no more than a feather. The hands that gripped his shoulders were unmerciful and made of iron as they pulled, causing a cry to wrench itself from his lips as shooting sparks rippled over the scar that was well-hidden under a layer of jumpers. His cry of pain was ignored, drowned by the roaring of the waves that suddenly sent icy shocks through the soldier's system.

 

_I'm dreaming._

 

John thought in panic, feeling the ice of the ocean shock his system into tightening before going limp, strong limbs refusing to let him sink, let him drown.

 

_I've gone mad, or my drink was spiked. I'm dreaming. All a dream._

 

Except his dreams had never let the feeling of water filling his mouth feel so real, nor had the pressure of hands wrapped around his chest been so forceful and unyielding. In the dark of night, a set of eyes glowed like blue fire, and John found himself tucked against a marble-white chest even as a voice that rumbled like a hurricane snarled its claim over him.

 

_**MINE.** _

 

And the power of that voice, the unyielding force behind that song, caused the soldier's legs to buckle, his thoughts freezing against his will as his body fell lax against the creature's hard ribs. John Watson was alive, panicking silently inside of himself, but outside he could not move. Could not speak. He was as limp as a rag doll as he felt a controlling domination pinning his body in place, a magic that he had spent the greater part of his life trying to convince himself didn't exist.

 

In the darkness of the cold water surrounding him, John felt a cold nose nuzzling possessively between his collarbone and neck. The feeling of it brought the memory of the young boy doing something similar, except then his voice hadn't been able to completely turn John into a wordless mannequin. The feeling of it also caused something to shudder through John, and he would call it terror, if it weren't for how hard he flinched when a pair of surprisingly gentle lips pressed against where his carotid artery thrummed with life.

 

Sherlock's hum against his skin wasn't exactly a song. More of a promise. It rang in John's ears even as he felt himself slipping, water filling his lungs as the Selkie dragged him deeper, deeper into the dark waves below.

 

_I will never let you go again._

 

The ex-army doctor in that moment believed him.

 

Rather wholeheartedly, in fact.

 


	11. Calm By Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... this wasn't supposed to be updated until I updated dragon's soldier and a few others... sighs.... oh well..
> 
> Many thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). :) without her, I'd likely drown in spelling errors XD
    
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
      
    
    

_An able soldier, bold and true,_

_To my way hay, Stormalong, John!_

_A good old bosun to his crew._

_To my aye, aye, aye, aye, Mister Stormalong!_

_He's moored at last and furled his sail,_

_To my way hay, Stormalong, John!_

_No danger now from wreck or gale._

_To my aye, aye, aye, aye, Mister Stormalong! **\- S**_ ** _tormalong, Unknown_ ** _  
_

 

 

 

Drowning was unpleasant.

 

Not that John particularly expected it to be a walk in the park. No, floating in the grip of a creature that was made of iron and stone, he couldn't quite say he expected to be comfortable.

 

For one, it was cold.

 

Ice-cold, and he had been submerged so quickly that his body hadn't even had time to begin shivering, instead locking up like he was a leaden statue, cramping in agony that seemed to pound in time with the wild and erratic rhythm of his heart. Drunk beyond any such capacity to think clearly and already half out of his mind with terror, John kicked and found himself sucking in sharp lungfuls of frigid water, his chest burning with the mixture of salt and the lack of oxygen.

 

And all around him, the song still played, being sung by a voice that was as rich and dark as those eyes which now pinned him in place, circling him possessively as the pale figure kicked and swam around him, no longer needing to hold him down. The water was too deep, and John was no longer coherent enough to know what way was up and what way was down. The baritone melody seemed to hum in his blood thickly, turning it colder and colder.

 

_Hush now, no more fighting. Let the sea drink you in._

_Stop fighting, dear one, stop fighting. The ocean will teach you to swim._

 

But either the ocean didn't particularly like John, or the poor man was too insensate to get his limbs in working order. For the army doctor was sinking like a stone, and to his detached horror, he could read in the creature's expression as he swam above him that this wasn't the way it was supposed to work. Whatever the monster wanted, it wasn't to see John's eyes slowly roll to the back of his head, the lack of his air exploding from blue-tinged lips. It wasn't to see the man fall limp like a ball of seaweed. Distantly, John heard the song begin to change, becoming more frantic. Pale arms and legs kicked towards him, impossibly fast. Cerulean eyes stared at him in worry.

 

_Why can't you breathe? Why my love, why?_

_Why are you so cold?_

 

And then, the song all around John seemed to turn darker, more edged with a desperate panic.

 

**_Why do you die?!_ **

 

John wished he could tell him, no beg for air, but he was already slipping away. Pale skin was merging with dark curls, blurring into eyes bluer than the inside of a violet. His own heart sounded faint and muffled in his ears. The pain in his chest was too much, dimming as darkness edged out his vision. In a last feeble attempt, John reached out. He felt the edge of his finger brush a rapier-sharp jutting of a collarbone. Underneath it, he could feel a steady pounding. Pumping.

A strange heartbeat, thrumming next to his skin.

Then John Watson remembered nothing at all.

 

****

If drowning hurt, then coming _back_ from being drowned hurt _more._

 

John woke to agony searing red across his vision, nausea feeling as though it was ripping him in two even as he gasped, hacking up mouthfuls of water onto the strong arms holding him in place. He realised his chest was being pounded on, warm lips pressing to his own, forcing air down his lungs between bouts of vomiting. A continuous cycle that made his bones feel like they were creaking in protest, his lungs wailing in remorse. It continued, too, despite his weak and garbled protests. The strange hands pounding away at him seemed determined to wring him out like a dishcloth, and it was only when John violently flipped himself onto his stomach, puking up the last few mouthfuls of ocean in his system, that the insistent lips and fingers stopped their cycle of attempted healing. There he braced himself on his knees and elbows, sand biting into his skin like tiny ants as he panted, dry-heaving for a few more seconds as the darkness cleared from his vision and slowly sound percolated itself back into his ears.

 

The first thing John heard was the wind, moaning outside and kicking up shells from the sand. It sounded like the clatter of bone, of pottery shards and pale-cold ice. The next was the slow breathing underneath it, the sound of another human being, and John struggled for a moment and grappled with his memory, uncertain as to what had happened. Finally, there was the darkness, still present despite the fact that he could now make out the outline of his own hands, the faint moonlit-suffused glisten of the wet rocks before him. It was the kind of glow that came only in a sheltered place, and with a shudder he realised he knew the shape of that rock.

 

He knew the smooth, time-worn arch of the dome above him, he had passed out under it before. He was inside the cove, the hiding place of his childhood, and the thought caused the other memories to surface. The ones from years ago, and the ones from what must have been at most only thirty minutes passed. Unthinkingly John spun, eyes wild as he searched in the darkness for the creature he knew must be there, and he was not disappointed. A harsh cry broke from his lips as he recoiled from the shadow, the shape of the man regarding him in the safety of the cove with narrowed eyes and calculatingly pursed lips. Sherlock had changed much as John had, and in the dimmed light of the cove, he looked more animal than man.

 

The Selkie to be fair had mostly recognised John because of the bondbite on his wrist. Like a song it had called to him, forced his instincts into a frenzy, led him to nearly drowning the Human in his desperation to ensure that no one separate him from his long-lost Mate. This man shivering before him, strange clothes sopping wet and hanging heavily on his thin form was not the boy that Sherlock had bitten so many moons ago, and it showed in the depths of the shadows under his eyes, in the way his left hand trembled and his leg limped. The man before him eyed Sherlock as if he were some kind of demon, and he kept repeating a string of words, the likes of which the Selkie could now translate, having hunted enough Humans to recognise the sound of distress.

 

“G-get back! No! I am not doing this again! Y-you're not real, you can't be real! You're n-not-”

Despite his terror, this John did seem willing to fight. The man backed away until he found a sizeable stone, gripping it in his hand so that the sharp edges must have bit into his skin. Sherlock's keen vision, better at night than the Human likely knew picked up on it, moving out of the way with lightning speed just as the man hurled it at his head. The rock broke, shattering into shards that pelted the top of Sherlock's curls, and the Selkie hissed in annoyance and lunged, determined to get this temper tantrum finished lest John find something else to break.

 

The army doctor found himself pinned down against the sand, a warm and pale body pressed flush against him as Sherlock (for it really was Sherlock, wasn't it? Not just a dream…) firmly shoved the army doctor's hands above his head, holding him down so that the man's vain struggles were soon useless and somewhat pathetic. In another lifetime, John may have been able to flip Sherlock over, wrap his hands around the creature's throat, but his own breath found itself caught in his chest, his pleas and protests dying as he found his eyes locked onto the irises he had dreamt of for so long as a child.

 

Slowly, like the trickling of a drain, John fell silent and still. Numb to the reality of the situation before him.

 

The eyes blinked down at him, shifting in colour like a kaleidoscope every few seconds, sometimes blue sometimes green, flecked with mica and gold and shot through with a silver that reminded John of stardust. They peered from underneath a set of dark brows, and those brows were furrowed in concentration of keeping the army doctor not only still but pliant, the creature's strength so much firmer than John had recalled. But that made sense, didn't it? For much like John had grown, so had his dream, this Sherlock, and the man before him now outmatched him not only in size but muscle structure. Though tall, the creature had muscles underneath the milky expanse of skin that were pressed to John's hips and chest, whipcorded and lean like a swimmer's and especially powerful in his legs and stomach. John could feel them, pinning his lower half in place with little effort, and when he strained experimentally against the hands holding his wrists he froze as a rumbling growl reverberated from Sherlock's core. It was like the hiss of dry scales against skin, and John found himself staring wide-eyed as the creature glared down at him, teeth bared sharp and glittering in a wordless warning.

 

Do not try to move.

 

John tentatively relaxed, heart still beating and throat still raw from coughing up salt and bile. He didn't dare to even cough as the creature above him moved, releasing one of his hands to carefully trace the underside of John's jaw, fingers long and strangely delicate as they mapped out the edge of the doctor's stubble. John found himself remembering that touch – warm and not at all slimy like as a boy he thought it might be – even as he shut his eyes and fought the urge to recoil, gritting his teeth hard until he felt the hand massaging the lock of his jaw, silently urging him to relax. The army doctor did, more so out of fear than willing compliance. Sherlock's teeth were far too close to his throat for his liking, and he had no idea what the Selkie might do. There was a hunger in the creature's eyes, and John only knew that so far his childhood playmate had tried to drown him, however inadvertently. For he was beginning to see it was perhaps an accident even as Sherlock's hands mapped out the expanse of his throat going steadily lower to brush the man's collarbone and soaked buttons of his shirt.

 

Sherlock was gentle in his ministrations, and he looked for bruises or pain that he had caused as without preamble he began to unbutton John's shirt, wanting to make sure the man's ribs were whole and intact. Beneath him the Human recoiled and spluttered weakly, but the Selkie paid him no mind as he struggled with the strange skin the creature beneath him wore, fighting with the fastenings momentarily before working them free. Once the material was open, the Selkie mapped out the differences in his Mate's older form, eyes tracking the gold dusting of hair that trailed past his navel to disappear under more fake skin, to the freckled and tanned muscles that were likely once hard and prominent but now were slightly softened from a few months of inactivity. Sherlock noted that his Mate had been fighting, somewhere warmer than here, like where his pod migrated to during harsher times. It was evident in the dozens of little marks lining the Human's skin, white and pink and some still red. However, the largest caused the Selkie to growl, and beneath him the Human flinched violently as his shoulder was exposed, revealing the scar that radiated outwards in a starburst pattern down his arm and clavicle, bright pink and still healing.

 

John jumped as the baritone suddenly sang, words rolling and menacing in the dark. Rich like the promise of cumulus clouds on the edge of the wharf. Sherlock's expression was murderous as he pressed the bow of his lips against the scar and rumbled threateningly,

 

_I shall hunt, I shall kill._

_I shall take the ones that injured that which I see as mine,_

_and rip their hearts out, eat them._

_And their breaths will become screams in the water._

_And their blood will paint my skin._

 

The creature's tone made it a vow, a whispered gift made to the soft skin lining John's throat.

 

Shivering, the army doctor finally found his voice. It trembled, but he found himself chuckling, if somewhat hysterically.

 

“Good luck with that, mate, the bastards are likely dead along with the bomb that killed half my squadron.”

 

To his surprise Sherlock cocked his head to the side as if John's voice was a curiosity, blue eyes tracking the shape of his lips and how they moved. The army doctor found himself sighing, some of his fear melting away to sheer exasperation as he realised.

“You still don't understand fuck all that I'm saying, do you? And yet I can still understand you...”

 

And then, because Sherlock was still studying him intensely, John tentatively brought his arm that wasn't captured in front of the creature's face. He snapped wetly, the sound of his thumb and finger clicking causing the Selkie to jump, unintentionally grinding down against the man's hips. John ignored the flash of warmth that hummed through his spine as he murmured in half amazement, half terror, “God… you're actually real…”

 

As he breathed the last word, the Selkie seemed to understand. Sherlock's eyes darkened as the creature leant forward, taking John's lips hungrily in a kiss that seemed to be designed to simply reassure him of his presence. The silk wetness of it didn't bother John as much as he thought it would, especially when he heard Sherlock hum against his lips. The press of them made his blood heavy with an alien comfort and sleepiness that was not quite his own. Sherlock's words were filled with a contentment that only strengthened John's conviction that he had hit his head a bit too hard against something. That this was all a dream.

An illusion.

 

_Mine. John Watson._

_Mine._

 

And all John could respond with was kissing the Selkie back, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to touch, to feel. To reassure himself that he hadn't died. For under the moonlight Sherlock appeared to be made of silver and fog, and in the night John's own brain had played tricks on him before. And there was something in the song being sung to him, because he found himself unable to quite fight any longer, quite resist. For Sherlock's weight was as trapping as it was comforting, and the man's throat stopped hurting when the Selkie brushed the edge of his cheek. Like the sailor's of old, John found himself drowning, except this time it was not in water, but in something potentially much more dangerous.

 

When the Human broke apart from the Selkie, he found his wrist was aglow. Runemarks hummed under his skin, pulsing bright blue in their radiance.

Oddly enough, they reflected the possessive glint in Sherlock's eyes even as the Selkie's command washed over him like the capsizing of a wave.

_Sleep, John Watson. Sleep. And tomorrow, the sun will greet you for the final time._

 

Much like when he was a boy, John found himself unable to resist.

This time though as he dreamt, he felt a pair of wiry, strong arms pull his form to their chest. It appeared Sherlock had no desire to leave, even if it meant that for the duration of dawn, he would have to hide in the darkness of the cove.
    
    
      __
    


	12. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so short ^.^'' school is eating my life and I'm frankly exhausted. Enjoy! Many thanks as always [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for editing for me :)

 

 

 

_And then_

_When the Empress ran aground_

_And my eyes turned blue and green_

_I heard a gorgeous sound_

_And that's when it became a dream_

_When the sky fell in_

_When the hurricanes came for me_

_I could finally crash again_

_And that's how I became the sea **\- How I Became the Sea~ Owl City**_

 

 

 

 

 

John dreamed of a sun rising, pale and gold and elegant on his cheeks, warm. Like a blazing medallion it struck the water, burning the ocean hotly and setting it sparkling like a rare jewel. He squinted against its glare, and to his surprise a whuffling came from his parted lips, _whiskers_ crinkling wetly on his cheeks. It took him a second to realise that around him dark heads bobbed sleekly, huge dark eyes fixated on the sun's slender rays peeking out and erasing the stars.

John found himself looking at things through the eyes of a seal.

 

He knew this, first of all because as he dove underwater he found himself accosted by several other dark bodies. Shining, twisting creatures moving effortlessly about him, nudging him forward when he hesitated to swim. Secondly, because his vision was in shades of black and white, and though slightly blurred on land beneath the waves could pick out each individual freckle of his pod mate's as they twisted and played, pups just having grown out of their fluffy coats. He swam from a distance, not quite with them yet near enough that one or two occasionally circled back to greet him, chirping brightly in a noise that somehow translated into a song to the man's ears.

 

_New pup? New pup! Play with us! Sing! Let us hear your melody, so that we may join it and_ _harmonise_ _!_

 

Thirdly, John knew because of his _hearing._ Sensitive, even the young seals at the head of the pod could be heard as they called to him, and he found his vessel body filled with a hesitant, small hope that seemed like a desperate candle aflame. And that was when John realised he was in _Sherlock's_ dream, because such a feeling he had never felt before. Something so fragile, desperate and willing to please. In the shadows of the water, John found himself swimming around individual patches of sunlight where the sun's rays permeated the water, hiding but wishing against all hope to join the sinuous grace of the young pod coasting only a few feet away. It was something deep and visceral, nearly as pulling as the song that spilled from their lips as Sherlock in his dream sang out his desire to belong.

 

_This is my song, this is the sea! Love the sea, hear its thunder, hear it rumble with me!_

 

And the other seals responded happily, chorusing with his barking melody until a symphony played in John's ears, stunning him and filling him until all that seemed to matter was _pod_ and _safety_ and _family, home at last._ For a moment, the weary soldier forgot himself, forgot the fact that it was _surely_ a dream, and he whooped with Sherlock's soaring heart as the seal bounded forward, finally appearing into the sunlight in his excitement and desire to become part of the small group of ragamuffin seals that seemed so friendly, so inviting.

 

As the sun hit the seal's skin, John saw a glint of Sherlock's fins. They were lacerated and horribly, terribly scarred. And suddenly, the songs stopped, turned into a screeching that killed the beautiful melody as much as the young seal's hope, and the pod turned to him, teeth and fins bared as they snarled _outcast!_ And beat him back and away from the group. Sherlock, his song cutting off into a whimper as he dove back for the darkness of the farther-reaching water, recoiled from the physical violence as much as their words that cut and tore, tearing apart the young seal as if he was nothing more than a scarecrow trampled underfoot.

 

_Outcast! Monster! Disrespect on you! You cannot join our song! The sea casts you out!_

 

Sherlock swam away finally, cast aside once more. Retreating to the darkness of the ocean below, the seal's mournful song of _Family_ trailed like the last broken keys of a piano smashed to pieces.

 

****

Sherlock didn't mind giving John dreams, not when his Human so obviously feared the traps of his own mind. Dark-ringed circles about the man's eyes were proof to that, and the Selkie's spidery fingers traced them even as he hummed a low vibrating tune under his breath. The shape of the soldier's jaw was angular, solid; a face weathered by the sun instead of the sea, and it was rough underneath his palm, almost prickly. Selkie's did not get stubble, and so Sherlock felt along the edge of the coarse, short fur, feelings its texture with experimental interest. Beneath his touch, John twitched, lost in the throes of memories not his own. Though Sherlock did not know what a dream was, nor a nightmare, it looked as if his Mate was uncomfortable. Soft cries uttered from the Human's parted mouth, and the Selkie silenced the feeble cries by pressing his lips possessively against him, silencing John even while changing the dreams, shifting them to something perhaps more joyful. In Sherlock's thoughts, he came to drift upon an experience he had as a child. Selecting it, he sang the melody that reminded him most of the past, humming low in his throat and crooning like a mother might to her child. Even as he did, the sun rose its way stutteringly into the sky, the last dredges of night sweeping away to make way for dawn.

 

Though Sherlock could feel the warmth of the sun's rays, peeking at the entrance of the cove, he dared not draw nearer, curling instead to the shadow of the shallow waters that never completely dried at the cave's back. An inky form, he clutched John like a prized treasure, cradling to his chest. He inhaled deeply, smelling the scent of a higher tide drawing near. Soon the cave would fill, and John could not breathe, not in his weak form, the form for land that was so limited. Sherlock knew it was prudent he call for assistance. After all, now that he had John, proof of his claim, his family would _have no choice_ but to accept him. Call him their Prince. The thought sent a wave of triumph through the creature's chest, and he purred with satisfaction. Lying John gently on the sand, trusting the soldier to wander for longer within the Selkie's dream-spell, Sherlock crept towards the tide pools of the cove.

 

As he sang, Sherlock leant over the shallow pools in which he had made his Bondbite so many years before, staring at his own reflection in the water, pale and ethereal. Reaching out one long hand, Sherlock whispered a spell, uttering it into the darkness in a melody that reached John as if from far away, sweeping him and filling him, making his blood sing as if it had become saltwater, crashing on the moors.

  
  


_Ocean gleam, Ocean sing,_

_Ocean hear my plea._

_Call he who bears my blood,_

_and still calls my tortured soul._

_Bring my Blood forth,_

_have him know my song._

_And let him know my words,_

_and let me prove him wrong._

  
  


The tide pool glowed a dazzling, shimmering blue. Sherlock leant closer, the marble of his face illuminating so that his eyes burned brightly like fire.

Little did the Selkie realise that his soldier had trained himself to wake from sleep much sooner than the average Human, months of nightmares and PTSD-induced panic attacks training him to startle.

Little did Sherlock know that John as he collected his bearings had no plans of hesitating in his goal to escape.

Little did the creature realise until it was too late, that John had a piece of driftwood in his hands, creeping soundlessly behind Sherlock until he raised it high in the air, and firmly brought it down with cold brutality over the Selkie's skull.

  
  


With a resounding _CRACK_ Sherlock slumped, and the tide pools turned dark, and John found himself looking at a curled Humanoid form at his feet, and a Seal's pelt lying impossibly at Sherlock's side.

 

For the first time, John was forced to conclude that he had finally experienced something at least a thousand times stranger than the bullets and fire of Afghanistan.

The thought caused him to laugh, and he tried to pretend the sound wasn't absolutely borderline hysterical.

 


	13. Prisoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my fantastic beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya)
> 
> Sorry this took a while to get out! exam week just began ^.^'' 
> 
> HOWEVER with summer updates for all of my stories should pick up :)

 

 

 

 

_When the sky fell in_

_When the hurricanes came for me_

_I could finally crash again_

_And that's how I became the sea_  
  
_I wrenched the engines off_

_And drank them down_

_The depths turned the iron soft_

_As they swiftly drowned_

_And I brought the ocean side_

_To its rusty knees_

_As I felt the even tide_

_Deep in my shallow dreams_ **\- Owl City, How I Became The Sea**

 

 

 

The creature was like dead weight when John tried to lift him, heavy and nearly immovable. Hooking his hands under Sherlock's pale armpits, the army doctor grit his teeth, trying to drag the Selkie further into the cove. It was like trying to move a stone, and the man grunted with the effort, his bad leg beginning to tremble under the stress of the past twenty-four hours. Finally, John could move him no more, and he found himself staring at the limp form, something akin to panic alighting in his bones.

 

The issue was, he would normally be more than happy to abandon this strange nightmare. To make his way back to his little cottage by the sea, pack his things, leave and never return. That in itself wasn't an issue, John had every plan of leaving.

 

However.

 

There was the unmistakable sound of waves lapping closer and closer, the tide coming in, stretching itself and making its way towards the cove. In a few hours, it would be submerged beneath the waves. The small rock-pool that John now stood by was testimony to that. The problem was, and it became more apparent as John's haze of anger and fear turned to sand in his mouth, that leaving Sherlock there on the sand, in a definitely _Human_ form (and _God,_ when did John start believing in such things??) meant that the army doctor was making an assumption:

That the Selkie could breathe underwater, even if he wasn't in his seal skin.

Which may or may not have been true. If he could, then John could go on his merry way without a shred of guilt. The bastard deserved far more than a cold dunking... However, if he _couldn't..._

 

Unconscious, Sherlock quite suddenly did not look nearly so terrifying. Like a child, his eyelids flickered slightly in his sleep, his face seemed rounded and younger. The lithe way in which he held himself was gone, instead replaced with a kind of boyish awkwardness of angles. John found himself reminded of some of the soldiers he had seen, especially along his later tours. Young, bright, the potential for life etched in their expressions. Hidden and erased by sand and dust and bleeding and hurt. Sherlock's face when awake had been like that, cold and calculating and fierce. Yet lying before John, the Selkie looked like little more than a child.

 

That was to say, a child who was impossibly strong.

 

And quite possibly vicious.

 

The army doctor checked himself, unwilling to be caught into the false glamour that such a creature seemed to exude even in sleep. His grandmother's words came to him unbidden, and John felt himself hesitate to act.

 

_The Selkie are hunters, my boy. Predators both beautiful and strange. But they are also in a way, children. Children of the sea. The ocean's brood. Playful things, when they are in the right mood. Yet so deadly when their hunger is aroused. It is this illusion of playfulness that sends good sailors to their deaths even nowadays. This idea that the sea itself can be tamed, so long as it is entertained._

 

Shaking his head free of such elusive information, John straightened, clenching his jaw in resolution. It would be in his own best interest to do this. To leave now, to not return. It would be better for his health, for his sanity. It would be better for everyone, his therapist, even Harry, though he hadn't talked to her in an age without getting into a screaming match. Hell, it might even be better for Sherlock, in the long run. Looking closer at him, it was clear that the man was skinny – too skinny. Scars, old and shining but still visible dotted his body, running over his arms and ribs like silk lace. The army doctor thought of the memory, the pain he had felt in the dream he was now sure came from the Selkie. If Sherlock was doomed to spend the rest of his life alone, without even a ghost of a family to go home to...

Maybe it was better, to leave the Selkie to die.

Yet...

 

The guilt would not leave. Like an iron stake, it lay heavy in John's chest. Rooting him to the spot. His teeth snagged on his lower lip, and his hands clenched at his sides. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, John collected his thoughts, bringing them to two singular paths:

 

Take a chance or not.

 

In the end, what decided it was one very singular thing.

Sherlock, lying curled in the sand, twitched and rolled over. It was then that John saw, cut across his scalp with a jagged lightning strike, the wide gash that he had inflicted on the poor creature's skull. It bled sluggishly, a brilliant copper red that stained the sand beneath it, made inky curls sticky. There was no way the Selkie would rise any time soon. Which meant, the soldier realised with a sickly sort of resignation in his gut, that even if Sherlock could breathe, could swim in this form, there would be no way he would be awake in time before the tide rolled in.

Not for the last time, John cursed the small grain of kindness that had lingered in him to this day, despite the horrors he had seen. Not for the last time, he muttered a particular oath to the ghost of his grandmother.

 

****

As Sherlock slept, he dreamed of storms.

When the sea was blackened and mysterious, dark and unruly on its surface only to be still in the depths below. When lightning flashed, illuminating the waves, highlighting ghostly figures swimming in the shadows before flickering back to black. He could taste the flavour of unrest on his tongue, dark and heady as he swam. The ocean was uneasy.

 

Something… something that was not part of it was there. Something that played in the ocean... but was not a child of the ocean... like black oil, its presence blurred things, made it hard to breathe.

Sherlock slept, but his dreams were closer to nightmares. Strange and dangerous and savage.

****

John tied the creature to the guest bed that Harry used to sleep in, its frame just small enough that he could tie the Selkie's ankles to the bed posts without straining the rest of the creature's limbs.

It had taken a lot of effort to drag Sherlock back towards the cottage, and more effort still to push and pull and manoeuvre him up the stairs. All the while John's leg had pulsed, complaining in a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache that began to develop in his back. Though the creature wasn't exactly fat, he was muscular, a swimmer's form. Deceptively heavy, for one so lithe.

 

Once actually in the room, John had struggled to find a way to restrain the creature, should it arise and panic or worse. Eventually, the army doctor's thoughts had flicked to his grandmother's old fishing boat, tied not far on the moor of the beach. All but running, John had collected the heavy twine rope that had knotted it in place, feeling only a slight and brief remorse for beaching the vessel so that he could properly tie the Selkie down. John had never been one for knotwork, but he could manage a basic set of ties. The rope was long enough to do the job, and soon he was faced with the sight of a very tall, very naked man completely bound to a bed, unconscious. For a moment, the army doctor couldn't help but shake his head, marvelling at how far he had already fallen. Once upon a time if someone had told him that this sight would be in his future, he would have laughed. Long and hard.

 

Staring at Sherlock, it didn't really feel like much of a joke.

 

Lastly, John hid the seal pelt, certain the creature would never find it.

A little leverage, if nothing else. Though the army doctor didn't believe in magic, he had trusted his grandmother. Since the world was going insane anyway, it wouldn't hurt to be safe rather than sorry.

 

All that was left, was to wait.

 

Settling down in the old rocker that his own mother had used when John was a baby to lull him to sleep, the army doctor sat with his hands clasped between his knees. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Somewhere downstairs, the message machine of the phone bleeped. Mike's voice, concerned but still jovial, drifted in muffled tones up the stairs. Asking if he was all right, if he had left early because he hadn't been feeling well.

John looked at the softly glowing creature before him, all cream and ink in the lamplight.

 

He found that to his surprise, everything was fine.

 

Somewhat chaotic. Somewhat destructive. A small, quiet part of him that was locked away, endlessly screaming at the situation. At this predicament. Panicking.

But...

Fine.

 


	14. Possessive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, new chapter! ^_^ Many thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for editing this chapter!! :3 I hope you all enjoy!

 

 

_I had to think awhile. I had to think awhile._

_The ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in?_

_In your head, in your mouth, in your soul._

_And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old._

_Well I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I hope so._

_Well that is that and this is this._

_You tell me what you want and I'll tell you what you get._

_You get away from me. You get away from me._ **_-_ Modest Mouse, The Ocean Breathes Salty**

 

 

 

Sherlock woke thinking for a moment that he was being held down by an attacker.

Naturally, John was roused not much later to hear a resounding moan as the bed beside him all but wailed against the creature's panicked thrashing, old springs shrieking almost as much as Sherlock as the Selkie woke with a snarl, eyes open and wild as he struggled to take in what was happening around him. In the dim lighting he was made of harsh lines and pale canvas, thunder and lightning coalescing into something ghastly and terrifying as he arched against the restraints holding him in place. For a moment John did not remember, could only gape at the pale, savagely snarling creature, eyes wide in disbelief as he struggled to remember previous events, how he wound up being where he was. When he _did_ finally recall, the knot of tension that had wound itself in his stomach only turned to ice, heavy and unforgiving.

 

He found himself rising to his feet delicately, hands lifted up in gentle supplication, although he did not dare touch the writhing, angry creature before him. Just above the snarling, he spoke.

 

“Easy, now. _Easy._ I'm not going to hurt you. It's John, remember? The one _you_ tried to _drown?_ ”

 

Truthfully, the ex-army doctor wasn't sure how well his words were received. It was still debatable just how much the Selkie truly understood of what he was saying, and if possible Sherlock's hissing snarls only increased in volume. The man was half-wild, writhing and thrashing on the bed, causing the old wood underneath his frame to whine and protest shrilly. It was a cacophony of horrible shrieking, and John resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears and wince. Like the sky itself was protesting the capture of such a peculiar creature, lightning forked in the windows, turning Sherlock's eyes from baleful blue to slitted silver. Mad, rolling and menacing. John could hear the waves hitting the beach with more force than usual, and as the sun began to wash over the shore in dull peach tones, it was quickly covered by a rumbling storm. A part of the army doctor wanted to flinch from the way the window panes rattled in his ears, quivering in their frames like scared children running for cover.

Instead, he forced himself to step forward, putting himself further into the creature's line of sight while still maintaining a respectful distance. Then, gathering the last of his courage, the ex-army doctor straightened, clenching his jaw. His eyes flashed as he used the most authoritative voice he could muster, the one he had used to make bleeding men hold still and comrades fall into line. The barking order though not understood exactly, carried its message with accuracy.

 

“ _That's enough!”_

 

Wide eyed, Sherlock fell still. The never-ending snarl that had peeled his lips back to reveal bone-white teeth ended, and the storm outside turned hushed too abruptly to be entirely natural. For a moment the creature lay on the bed panting, pale expanse of chest heaving with the last vestiges of his fit, shuddering to a stand-still slowly like a train juddering to a halt. Long fingers clenched themselves into fists against their bindings, but the Selkie fell still, seeming to collect itself from its blind fury even as Sherlock blinked away his rage, letting it melt into surprise. The Human before him stood tall and ramrod straight, cane forgotten long ago, cobalt blue eyes almost stern and reprimanding. Though John did not shout again, he spoke with quick, precise sentences, clipped and sharp in his strange tongue. Sherlock understood certain words, his experience of living around cargo ships and scrounging on the edge of the sea teaching him certain key phrases.

 

“That's enough,” John repeated, softer now that the Selkie no longer seemed intent on tearing the bed from its frame.

 

The creature looked at him with an unwavering and unflinching gaze, eyes filled with curiosity and mistrust even as it lay in silence. Stretching and vast. The ex-army doctor knew that Sherlock did not understand much of what he was saying, but he found himself carrying on, uncertain of what he was trying to accomplish but relieved now that the Selkie was no longer throwing a fit, and that the storm outside was no longer reminding him of gunfire and screams from another place, another time.

“There, now. Isn't that better? You'll hurt yourself if you pull on those too tightly, make your wrists bleed…”

Sherlock picked up from the garble of words _Better_ and _hurt._ He guessed by the way his Mate was rambling on, John was saying something to the effect of his capture. Lightly the Selkie tugged on his restraints, feigning an innocent expression with wide eyes. Softly, he sang.

_What have you done?_

_Hurting... Hurting... these ropes that bind._

_Cannot go home, cannot show you the sea...._

_Release me?_

_Release me?_

The Selkie crooned in a sugary-sweet voice and his tone was harmless, but John saw the power in the corded muscles tensed on the bed. Though his head swam for a moment like a bobbing buoy with Sherlock's song, he shook the disorientation free from his thoughts, pushing through the fog to firmly clench his jaw and glare.

“Stop it. _Stop it._ Or I'll gag you, I swear on my life.”

 _Gag._ Sherlock knew that word. His eyes narrowed to slits instantly, and the kind demeanour was gone as the Selkie snarled, teeth bared in an inhuman and twisted expression of hatred. Gone was the attempt at gentility, John was staring down at the equivalent of a tiger held down with paper and string, the storm picking up again outside even as Sherlock howled his discontent. His shrieking song stabbed the army doctor's thoughts and cornered them, as sharp at the pale man himself.

_YOU ARE MY MATE._

_RELEASE ME. THE SEA CALLS TO_ _YOU,_ _JOHN WATSON. THE SEA CALLS._

 

… _It_ _was, too._

 

The thought came to John, and he clutched at his head, wincing and moaning even as he felt it, a tingling along his arms and deep in his bones. The scar on his wrist burned hot like fire, and his stomach rolled like an ocean wave. Thundering deep in the wet tissue of his heart, he could feel it as a constant drum, thundering under his skin.

 

_MINEMINEMINEMINEOCEANCALLINGMINE._

 

The Selkie's voice seemed to mix with the melody that howled on the blackened wind, rising to sing a haunting counter-point.

 

_John Watson, do not fear me._

_I promised you a family and my love and my loyalty._

_We do not forget. My kind_ _does_ _not take back our vows._

_For to do so would bring shame, so much shame, in our eyes._

_We do not desert our_ _kin…_

_Not like your kind._

 

“H-how… how do you…” John stuttered even as his hands scrubbed at his forehead, trying to block the song out. It was becoming harder for him to remember why Sherlock was tied down... _why_ he was dangerous. Before his eyes he saw the creature slowly melt into only a man, someone soft and inviting, a warm body calling for him like a beacon of light. Like a moth drawn to a flame the soldier wavered, caught in a web of music and magic as he swayed in place. Sherlock carried on in earnest now, even as he shifted, bringing his bonds subtly closer towards where the Human could reach. His eyes roved, picking out details he saw of his Mate, the life he had lived while the Selkie had been lost… so lost without him…

 

_Your mother first… then your father… they all leave in the end, it broke your sister._

_She fell into Human poisons… and left you to rot in the desert._

_You deserve more, John. So much more…_

_Let me give you more…_

 

Closer still, and John almost reached out, feeling a dull pain in his chest ache at the proximity. A part of him screamed at himself, was shouting above the din in animalistic terror that he was being so easily controlled. Manipulated. Yet so easily it was drowned, lost in a pool of want, deep in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock's words were a salve to a bleeding wound, and the wound had been festering for so long, left to bubble and grow infected. His hands just brushed the bluish vein of a pale wrist, shivering as he felt the heat coming off of both the creature's body and heated stare, when John's mind gave one last futile attempt at fighting.

 

_The Pelt._

 

And with a mighty wrenching of his own thoughts, John stumbled backwards, knocking the rocking chair back and nearly tripping over it. His own loud breathing muffled the creature's infuriated roar. John turned, backing out of the room first at a shuffle than a full run, clapping hands over his ears even as Sherlock shrieked in protest.

 

_John! JOHN! JOHN! JOHN?!_

 

The slamming of the bedroom door caused the Selkie's blood to boil in complete vexation.

 

****

John felt the grain of the wood pressed against his forehead, how it dug sharply into his eyebrow, almost drowning out the terrible howling upstairs. He leaned against the edge of the stair well, drawing deep, gasping breaths into his lungs. 

The pressure of each inhalation felt like it was crushing his ribs. Like steel bands, wrapping themselves around his heart. 

His mouth tasted of desert. It tasted of salt. 

More than anything, it tasted metallic with a tang that was familiar as it was unsettling. 

On his tongue, the sharp taste of adrenaline, coursing through his veins a mile a minute filled him. It flowed through his very bones. Though the creature raged on above him, words muffled by wood and thick and solid insulation, John could still feel his heart pounding away shakily, leaving him feeling as if he was scarcely able think. He found his grandmother's words, drifting in his ear. Her favourite kind of saying:

_Those who go looking for trouble oft find it.... Then again, they're the ones who live life to the fullest._

To his surprise, the ex army doctor stared at the outline of his hand, tremor-free and steady by his side, and found if nothing else, he had to silently agree. 

 


	15. An Ocean Of Myths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) For the lovely beta-ing she does. :3
> 
> This chapter is very short. However the next one will likely wind up being quite a bit longer. it's just the way they got split this time ^_^

 

 

_ And said "Good luck, for your sake I hope heaven and hell  _

_ are really there, but I wouldn't hold my breath."  _

_ You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?  _

_ You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?  _

_ The ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in?  _

_ In your head, in your mouth, in your soul.  _ _**\- Modest Mouse, The Ocean Breathes Salty** _

_  
_

 

It was curled up on the floor of the kitchen that John found himself dozing off, his thoughts trickling to little more than a weak forward march even as dawn threatened to pierce its way through the faded yellow curtains over the sink in front of him. His limbs ached from crouching on the cold wooden slats, and there was a developing crick forming at the base of his neck. His sleep was little, and what rest he did get was plagued with nightmares, shapes dark and mysterious, lost in tides of sand and sea. Hands, reaching to grasp him from the darkened, sand-blasted buildings of Kandahar. Oceans and tides filled with the sound of gunfire. Screaming. Twice, the ex-army doctor awoke in a cold sweat, shaking.

  


Waiting for the creature's shrieking to die away seemed an endless sort of torment, and John had been too afraid to dare relax, fix himself a cup of tea in the stretches when he was awake. Sherlock had proven to have not only a set of lungs on him but a rather incredible determination, and John had listened with baited breath to the scraping of the bed frame being bodily nudged across the floor upstairs, dragging like harsh nails against a blackboard. Inch by inch, likely peeling away the polish of its surface to nothing. Yet it never moved more than a few inches, the Selkie's strength inhuman but not limitless. Sherlock would sing and scream and rage while he did this, and although John couldn't make out the words, muffled by the walls, he felt the pull of them in his gut. Weak, but still there. Like a tether wrapped about his waist.

  


As if the sky itself was in synchronisation with the Selkie's rage, dark storm clouds rolled overhead, attempting to blot out the rising sun with tumulus shades of steel and charcoal. John looked out the window with the uneasy shivers of a child staring out at something unnatural and powerful. Something incomprehensible but instinctively to be avoided. His mind shied away from the very idea of such power, and as lightning forked the sky John found himself jumpy, seeing flickers out of the corner of his eyes with the shuddering electricity of the cabin. Sleep didn't seem to be a factor for the creature above him, and Sherlock appeared nearly tireless in his constant bid for release.

In fact, daylight had already established itself, weak and watery with the inclement weather, before the ex-army doctor even heard a lull in Sherlock's rage. In that time, he had managed to stand, wandering over to the bookshelf that had rested in his grandmother's cottage. He found himself strangely hungry, and dishes sat in the sink, the faucet dripping steadily. It was a comforting sound, rather than irritating.

  


With the wind whistling through the slats of wood holding the structure together, John's fingers traced along the cracked and worn spines, eyes flicking over the titles. Searching. The tomes, all heavy and ancient-looking, were all printed in archaic and age-stained ink. All legends and myths, fairytales that John had grown up hearing and knowing. _The Water Horse, Kelpies, Banshees..._ The list went on and on, strange half-creatures peering up at him from pages the shade of yellow sand. Hand-drawn, they seemed almost alive, as if poised on the page and preparing only for some idle reader to reach out, bring them to life. Their wide, not-quite human eyes peered up from the pages, and teeth half-pointed and half-blunt grimaced and snarled and smiled in greeting.

John searched and searched, finding himself stacking the books and ordering them according to topic, to information held. A part of him whispered that it was beyond foolish, stubbornly insisting that there was no possible way any of said creatures even _existed._ Yet each time, that voice was drowned out by the memory of smooth seal pelt under his hands, and by the haunting lilt of a melody half-forgotten from childhood, swiftly gaining clarity the longer he listened to its croon from upstairs.

  


Finally, John found the book he was looking for. Its cover was the teal blue of tropical waters, silver name simply entitled _Tales of the Selkie._

  


Seated crossed-legged amongst a sea of stacked books, John hesitated before opening to the first page. For a moment, he considered why he didn't just leave, walk away. Not for the first time. Why hadn't he run yet? His therapist had labelled him with trust-issues, with _avoidance tendencies_ for Christ's sake, he should have been packed by now, apologising to Mrs Hudson for not staying longer. He thought to himself that it was just his luck, to finally gain some courage when everything in his brain should have been urging him to turn tail, make a tactical retreat. Men who didn't know when to give up in war lost their lives, John had learnt that the hard way, watching his comrades get slaughtered before his eyes. He had learnt it first-hand, covering a comrade's prone body only to have a bullet rip its way through his shoulder. Yet now here he was, and he couldn't bring himself to put the book in his hands down, couldn't seem to bear the idea of leaving.

  


Why?

_Why?_

  


He was forced to admit that he didn't really know. Only that already his hands were peeling the front cover from the tome, his eyes tracing the first words before him. To his surprise, he found he recognised the handwriting, scribed in tiny black penmanship, perfect just beneath the dedication.

His grandmother's words, seeming to speak to him from beyond her grave.

  


_For my dearest John. May you always have the courage to believe._

****

Cara thought for the millionth time that she was going to murder Thomas, that was when she actually _found_ him. The slick from the seaweed and salt on the beach's edge permeated her shoes, creating an unpleasant squishing sound that made the little girl's nose crinkle with distaste. Honestly, she was nearly _ten_ now, old enough that she should have to chase after her twin every time he decided to wander off for too long on the beach. She made a mental note to throttle him later if their mum didn't get to it first, even as she kicked up mounds of pebbles and sand, toes chilling rapidly as she skirted the edge of the sea. Her dark brown curls threatened to be tugged free of the loose braid she wore even as she cupped her hands around her lips, calling out her brother's name to the sky in a hearty bellow that was carried out by the wind and over the many sharp rocks jutting out from the sand like graves.

  


“ _Thomas! Where are you?”_

  


The little girl's freckled face scrunched at the answering silence with frustration, and she sighed and braced her hands against her hips, shaking her head. Just as the silence threatened to stretch on for too long and she was forced to shout again, Cara caught out of the corner of her eye a flickering shadow, animal in shape. Spinning, the girl's eyes widened in surprise and delight as she saw the creature standing at just a little distance away.

 _A pony._ Her mind supplied in awe and wonder, eyes brightening like fairy lights even as her lips parted in awe. It was _indeed_ a pony, and although Cara wasn't sure how or when it had appeared, the little girl was certain that it was the most beautiful animal that she had ever laid eyes on. It stood just on the brush of the ocean's edge, sable coat glinting with sea water, long dark mane soaked with brine and blowing in the wind. Its large, sweet-looking eyes were framed by lashes long and thick, and its nose was dabbed with just a hint of cream. The little girl thought it looked _just_ like the horse from one of her favourite children's books, and with her brother temporarily forgotten, Cara found herself turning, taking a tentative step forward. The pony for its part seemed unafraid of her, whinnying softly at her approach. One hoof pawed the ground almost as if in greeting, and its ears were pricked forward, towards her.

Cara's feet seemed to float upon the sand, and the waves as they licked on her feet were a distant, cool sensation. A part of her felt as though her eyelids were rather heavy, like they became when she curled herself up in the large blanket her house had, by the fireplace. All fuzzy and soft. She thought the pony's neck and nose must be soft, if it looked so shiny from where she was standing. Her fingers itched, arm lifting to seek out its surface, to touch. Her lungs felt as though they were filled with water, and yet she couldn't drown, not so long as there was the horse, watching her. Guarding. Protecting.

Cara didn't realise that the pony was moving, moving deeper into the water. All she vaguely realised was that the cold feeling was reaching her knees.

Reaching her waist.

Reaching...

_Reaching..._

Her hands searched for that ocean-soaked mane of darkest black hair.

  


  


  


 


	16. Saltwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) For the lovely beta-ing she does. :)
> 
> After a very long hiatus, I give you the next chapter ^.^

 

 

_Come away little lost come away to the water,_   
_To the ones that are waiting only for you._   
_Come away little lost come away to the water,_   
_Away from the life that you always knew._   
_We are calling to you. **\- Maroon 5**_   


 

Like all gales eventually, Sherlock’s tirade fell into silence.

It took the better part of John’s courage however, to will himself back up the wooden stairs. Candles had long since guttered to the core of their wicks, and the ex-army doctor’s figure cast long shadows upon the wooden floorboards, creating creatures that flickered out of the corner of the eye threateningly.

A chill was sinking in the air, heavy and oppressive in its weight across John’s shoulders. It draped itself over him, and made his heart thrum sluggishly within his chest. He found the acrid tang of fear was becoming a familiar flavour on his tongue, something easily known. The thought sent a flutter of annoyance through his ribs, pointedly aimed at his therapist.

_So much for relaxing, **Ella.**_

The thought was petty and vindictive, but John really couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he was absolutely shuddering with the aftershocks of nerves, and most certainly not when he could still hear the straining of the bed springs, if he listened carefully.

It was a long time after the silence began that John managed to convince himself to stand, jaw clenching tightly. In his hands, the worn-edged book felt like a dead weight, opened as it was to the impossible page entitled The Selkie and Their Children.

As he rose, he read the words he had been staring at for most of the evening, the paragraph written in wide, looping handwriting, ornamented with swirling lines and curving “E”s.

_The Selkie folk are a secretive, curious race of creatures. Their origins are rather unknown, although some theories have been made as to the creation of their existence. Some experts claim them to be the fallen angels of God that landed in the water, others believe them to be cousins of the Fae. My personal belief is that they may be the reincarnations of the souls of the drowned, humans that have become one with the waves and the sea and become her children._

__

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he took in the words, steadying himself. Right then. Children of water. It would explain the storm outside, still raging on as if it intended to throw John to the depths of a watery grave.

The thought made the man pause, and he found himself coughing an incredulous laugh.

What was he even…?

_None_ of this made sense. None at all.

John’s grandmother – bless her soul – had believed in so many things that simply weren’t real. Goblins, Fae folk and merfolk and bloody _kelpies_ for crying out loud. The ex-army doctor’s parents hadn’t wanted such sentimentalities drowning out John’s common sense, yet here he was. A barmy fool, chasing after the illusion of magic and myth again like he was a child.

It was obvious that Sherlock was simply… mad. Right? There was no way… he had to be, a childhood stalker that John had somehow been unlucky enough to find again… Mad…

John’s thoughts, chaotic and unpredictable as a typhoon, were interrupted by the very deliberate sound of his name being called out tentatively from the upper room.

_**J** _

_**o** _

_**h** _

_**n?** _

Sherlock’s voice, normally so strong, rash and aggressive was muted. Quiet. If John was pressed to say… it sounded… weak.

It had to be a trap. Certainly. John hadn’t been born yesterday…

In his hands, the book felt warm, almost hot. John’s eyes cast themselves downwards out of their own accord, scattering across the words until he found himself picking out lines, the strange and poetic linguistics seeming to float before him.

_The Selkie is cursed to forever be a creature of the sea… cannot be parted from its maker…_

_Dawn marks the end of a Selkie’s life on land, if they are not reunited with the sea…_

__

John looked up, his mouth falling dry as he saw that the night was no longer dark, instead pale grey. Above him, no sound could be heard, the upper floor as still and silent as death. Almost dropping the tome with the sudden, clutching fear he felt tugging him to action in his navel, John found himself scrambling up the stairs. He, looking back on that moment, would not have been able to tell you what compelled him in that moment to care for the well-being of a creature not even of human species.

**  
  
**

****

Sherlock as a young man had once been caught in the nets of fishermen. In his seal-skin, he found himself twisting and turning, brutally lost amongst the chafing texture of rope and other fish that were struggling to break free of the man-made imprisonment.

He could remember how the sun had felt against his seal-skin, shining and brutally hot. It seemed to evaporate even the suggestion of moisture from his body.

That feeling threatened now, the window open and blowing gently the promise of morning sunrise on the horizon. The sky was pale grey, approaching yellow, and it quivered with the promise of a warm morning, should it be let to run its course. The bed frame lay directly in the sunrises’ path.

The Selkie strained against his bonds again, sweat beading on his brow. The ropes, a ghost reminder of the sting of the net dug into his wrists, cutting deep bruises into the soft and tender flesh. It didn’t hurt when compared to the low simmering feeling of tension boiling in his blood. An ache like fire licking over his skin.

Throwing his head back, the Selkie let out a pained whine, fever running through him, pink hives spreading out across his exposed skin like open sores.

John’s presence was barely acknowledged, much less celebrated, admittedly. The man had wandered in with obvious reluctance and hesitation, yet he moved with horrified purpose when he took in the sight of his current captive writhing in obvious agony. Sherlock barely moved, yet John was suddenly pulling at the Selkie’s binds, tearing at them until his fingers felt raw and worn until he could curl Sherlock towards the far end of the bed, away from the sunlight.

Sherlock for his part, made no move to protest.

The Selkie was warm, nearly feverish to the touch, and felt like a furnace under John’s hands felt as he had chilled himself by hiding out downstairs for most of the night. For such a tall creature, Sherlock curled up rather easily, tucking his face instinctively into the crook between John’s neck and shoulder. At the contact, the Selkie let out a feeble whimper of pain.

“Sorry… sorry.” John found himself apologising without really knowing why, rocking Sherlock back and forth like one might soothe a sick child. His hands found their way wound into the creature’s curls, though fear trembled in John’s chest like a live wire. Yet Sherlock showed no sign of moving anytime soon. Rather, he was pale as a sheet, save for two pinpoints of colour in his cheeks that signalled his fever. His breath was harsh and laboured and his pulse fluttered in the soft tissue of the creature’s wrist, wildly out of control. John truthfully wasn’t sure what he could do, other than make platitudes and hope and pray that the Selkie wasn’t going to die.

_Die._

And once that thought came, John found it very hard to remain settled indeed.

He found himself shouldering Sherlock’s weight, a determination settling in his gut for that not to happen, whatever the cost.

Fuck his therapist, John for the first time didn’t feel completely bored out of his _mind_ for once, and he wasn’t about to let the reason for that die due to some kind of extreme sunstroke.

It was automatic that he dragged Sherlock’s heavy mass to the small bathroom on the top floor, and then just logic to deposit the half-insensate Selkie into the porcelain blue tub.

Sherlock, for his part, didn’t seem to complain. The creature’s darkly-curled head lolled frighteningly easily against the edge of the tub, pale blue eyes flickering rapidly under pink-flushed lids.

“Water…” John mumbled, as if to himself, tearing a rather stressed hand through his blonde locks. Water. The tub could do that, he supposed, but something about it felt like it was wrong, chafed somehow. The ocean breeze, salty and bitter floated past his nose from the open window of the bedroom, and John groaned aloud when he realised.

Damn.

_Saltwater._

The ocean waves crashed outside, and John could somehow feel it in his veins. Sherlock needed saltwater, his body fast-struggling without its reassuringly cool taste and touch. Yet he knew that this would mean leaving the cabin, and leaving the Selkie on his own. The thought alone sent warning bells along the base of John’s spine. Anything could happen, the Selkie could be shamming for all he knew, playing hurt in order to play with John’s sympathies. The very thought caused him to eye Sherlock with mistrust, even as a breath left him in a huff of consternation. No, the Selkie wasn’t faking anything, not even the most brilliant actor would be able to mimic that thin sheen of sweat or the way the creature’s chest heaved as if he were a beached whale.

Sherlock was dying, and John felt a rather uncomfortable amount of panic over the mere thought.

There was no other decision, no other way. The very idea of letting the Selkie merely perish did not sit well with John’s Hippocratic Oath, let alone his conscience. It was with a rather healthy dose of frustration that he found himself crouching nearer to the tub, reaching out with his fingers to tap Sherlock’s face. The Selkie didn’t react right away, instead sluggishly blinking to life, the hives across his face looking painful and swollen against his pale features. John swallowed his guilt, realising it would do no good, not now. He had to help Sherlock, had to find a way to bring his fever down, and right now, the only option appeared to be heading out towards the beach.

So be it, then.

Clenching his left hand into a fist, John spoke to the rather bewildered-looking Selkie, willing his voice to gentle into something almost kind.

“It’s okay… It will be okay. I’m going to get something to help… Do you understand?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, his eyes clouded and confused and his pupils pinpricks, heavy with pain and exhaustion. Instead he stared at John in what could only be described as dependence, hopeful and vulnerable. It was as if Sherlock’s entire world was pinpointed onto John’s existence, those eyes were so filled with complete and utter fixation.

The gaze was as sobering as it was strangely lovely.

John swallowed slowly, jaw clicking as he rose. He heard the Selkie let out a nearly imperceptible whine at his movement, a pale arm reaching out as if to drag the man back to his side. John ignored the action, although the childishness of it made something pitying twist in his chest at the sight. He moved from the bathroom with a determined tilt to his strides, the likes of which Sherlock watched through muzzy thoughts and fever-ridden agony.

His last thought before darkness took over was that his John was leaving again. The sight of him turning his back caused indescribable despair to wash through the Selkie’s already addled mind before sleep took over, final and heavy.

**  
  
**

****

Mycroft had received the message his brother had sent him during the night, having been surprised and rather concerned when it had cut off abruptly. It was true that Sherlock was never one for any real communication, but his brother knew his Spells well, and had never dropped a telepathic link so suddenly before. To make it more concerning, it was a call that had been made while the Selkie had been on land. The elder Holmes as it was, found a tendril of unease winding through his abdomen as the night dragged on and his younger brother made no effort to reconnect, not responding to any of the elder Selkie’s own calls.

It was this that compelled Mycroft to swim towards the shoreland, sleek seal body cutting through the waves like they were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The ocean was dark that night, roiling with the knowledge that one of its children was missing, so close to sunrise. The elder Holmes travelled for most of the evening, coming to the cove where his brother had last contacted him by the first tendrils of dawning. The ocean by that point had erupted with the sunrise, blue water glittering gold and teal blue like the end of a peacock’s tail. Rising to the surface, Mycroft’s seal form was a dark buoy floating with the waves, rapidly approaching shore.

However, he decided to change directions to the other side of the beach last minute, as he heard a rather interesting noise. It was the distinct sound of a human, ankle-deep in the early morning light in ocean water. The sharp scrape of a metallic pail gathering sea water caused something ugly and furious to rise in the elder Holmes’ chest like a spike of poison.

 


	17. Sherlock's Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) For the lovely beta-ing she does as always ^_^ I wouldn't be able to make this story as good as it is without her.

 

 

 _Come away little lamb come away to the water,_  
_Give yourself so we may live anew._  
_Come away little lamb come away to the slaughter,_  
_To the ones appointed to see this through._  
_We are calling for you. **\- Maroon 5**_

 

 

The beach was rocky, and John’s bare feet ached with the press of stones under the soles of his feet. The sensation was familiar from his summers as a boy, and at any rate his feet were chilled by the icy nature of the water. It was truthfully shocking, how quickly John was getting used to his feet never being wholly dry. The methodic scrape of the metal pail as it scooped up bucketfuls of seawater was a soothing rasp in the depths of his ears. It took his mind off the reason why he was outside in the first place, why he was outside when the sun was barely peaking rosy along the sea-line. 

If he thought too much about it, it made his skin itch along the back of his neck and spine. 

 

His shoulder twinged with the weight of the bucket as he hoisted it up from the water. Later, the ex-army doctor would blame that physical pain as the reason why he didn’t notice the shadow of darker water slowly approaching him. John felt the hand snake around his ankle and had just enough time to suck in a startled breath before inhuman strength dragged him under, the pail still clutched reflexively in the man’s grip. The water was shallow enough that John’s head struck against stone as he was put on his back, and forgetting himself the man inhaled a pained breath, only to swallow saltwater into his burning lungs. John retched and coughed, struggling to gather his bearings even through the ringing in his head. Red painted his vision, adrenaline causing his heart to pound even as the shadowy hand dragged him forward, deeper into the ocean with brutal and unforgiving force. 

 

The water was dark, and the salt stung John’s eyes like bee stings as he peered into it, desperately resisting the urge to swallow more saltwater. Blearily, the man lashed out at his unseen assailant, striking what felt like slick flesh with his feet before sharp nails dug into his ankle, likely drawing blood with their strength. Gritting his teeth, the army doctor forced his legs to kick out despite the ever-clawing need for air, changing his momentum from moving away to moving towards his attacker. As John hurtled suddenly closer, he caught a glance at what he was facing, and the sight made his blood run cold. 

Pale skin, humanoid figure whose modesty was covered only by a tied fur cloak about his waist. Pale blue eyes burned in a face impassive in a cold and calculated rage.  

 

The Selkie bared their teeth, and a halo of red hair made their eyes glint like icy fire as they parted their lips, emitting a hiss that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end. The razor-points of its teeth flashed sharp and menacing, shark-like. Head burning with a craving for air, John landed a kick to the creature’s sternum, striking out as hard as he could. He found himself curiously without fear despite the desperation of the situation. Instead, rage was bubbling through his veins, liquid lava that burned and warmed him despite the water’s ice. He was not going to drown – Watsons didn’t drown! The sea was part of them, he would not be changing that fact just because he was losing his mind and beginning to believe in Selkies!

 

He felt the pressure of bones creaking under his foot, his blow landing solidly. The creature’s grip momentarily loosened, a surprised bubble of air escaping the Selkie’s chest, and it was just enough that John could tear himself away, ankle trailing blood into the water that burned scarlet before dissolving into the water. Ignoring the pain and moving as fast as he was able to in the water, the ex-army doctor kicked frantically towards the surface, his head breaking water. John gulped frantic mouthfuls of air, realising blearily with a sinking feeling in his chest that he had been dragged several feet away from the shore into the deeper water. His feet couldn’t touch the rocky floor, and every breath was agony and a blessing to his burning lungs. 

 

There was no sight of the Selkie in the murky waves, the creature still underwater, and John swore that if the situation weren’t so dire, the Jaws theme would be playing in his mind. The thought came to him only a moment, then he cried out in panic as impossibly strong arms wrapped themselves about his torso. John went under, his last thought for Sherlock of all things, waiting for him back at the cottage. What would happen to the Selkie if John drowned? Would anyone find the creature? Would they be looking for John, instead finding what looked to for all intents and purposes a naked, sunburnt man who was nearly nonverbal and feral in all of his mannerisms? The thought troubled the ex-army doctor, for some reason. 

 

Ocean around him a blanket that was cottoning off his senses, John found himself no longer able to fight the desperate need to breathe. His lungs felt as if they were going to burst, filling with salt rather than air. His limbs, once scrabbling against the arms restraining him, began to twitch then relax. The burning fury left him, replaced instead by cold. Distantly, John thought he heard Sherlock’s singing, a high and haunting melody that was lulling him towards the finality of sleep. 

 

_Hush, now. No more fighting._

_Hush, now. Sleep soundly. I am here._

 

By the time blackness claimed John like a capsizing wave, the singing voice had transformed into that of his grandmother’s. The memory of her sweeping voice, rich and unrestrained called to him as if through time. 

 

 ** _John. Don_** ’ ** _t cry, Johnny. Don_** ’ ** _t cry._**

 

He was shot, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he cry? Shouldn’t he sob because it hurt and because he was going to die? Or was he supposed to cry because he was leaving, and because Mum and Dad hated him and wanted to take him away from his friend?

John didn’t know. 

 

Then that voice too, melted into nothing. 

 

****

 

He was recalled back to life harshly, unfamiliar hands striking his chest in a brutal, clinical fashion, forcing the water from John’s lungs. It burned, and he did not wake easily, resisting it in the instinctive urge to avoid as much agony as humanly possible. Still the hands did not leave him be, not until nausea curled through the ex-army doctor, and he rolled over desperately to vomit up what felt like half the ocean from his stomach. Smooth stone met his knees as he did so, and dizzily John realised that he recognised the texture of it somewhere in the back of his mind. His leg ached from the cold, and the rest of him shuddered with it even as he breathed gratefully, the repeated inhalation of oxygen feeling like a blessed gift even as it burned. 

 

It was a long time before John could collect himself enough to become aware of the fact that he was not alone. The first thing he noticed was the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, trembling like the lick of a candle’s flame in the dark. As John struggled to sit up, to see past the blaze of pain in his ribs and throat and head, said shadow moved. The ex-army doctor found himself sitting in the cove that Sherlock had dragged him to both in the past and the present. Except instead of the dark-haired Selkie, John found himself being watched carefully by a figure that was both regal and cold. 

 

The Selkie was tall, taller possibly even than Sherlock, and the same mercurial glint glimmered in his expression. The man’s hair was wet – a dark brown, but John could see tints of red that promised to reveal themselves fully when dry. Skin that was the kind of pale that promised to freckle under the sunlight made the man appear almost sallow in the dark of the cove. An axeblade nose made features not classically beautiful, but there was a kind of beauty in the fierce and unbending dignity in the way the creature stood tall and unforgiving. Coral lips peeled back into a fierce snarl. Upon the creature’s strong upper arm, a band of gold glinted. Natural stones, shining like blood rubies carpeted the simple metal piece of jewellery, forming elaborate swirling lines and spirals. It looked heavy, almost as heavy as the beautiful silver clasp protecting the man’s dignity by holding his sealskin in place about his hips. 

What was the most surprising, however, was that upon being sure that he had John’s attention the Selkie opened his mouth, and spoke. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

 

His voice was crisp, the polished words having a British lean to them that was both upper class and refined. For a moment John floundered, the idea of Selkies learning human tongue having frankly never occurred to him. He struggled for a moment to process what he was even being asked, and when he did he felt a chill go through him that settled in his stomach heavily like lead stones. 

“Your… brother… Sherlock has a brother?”

 

The Selkie heaved a sigh, as if the question were exceedingly dull. Impatiently he stepped forward, reaching down to grab John by the collar of his shirt. Still kitten-weak like a ragdoll, the creature’s inhuman strength lifted the ex-army doctor as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. It was frankly belittling, to be manhandled, and John resisted it as best as he could, struggling. 

“Sherlock Holmes, yes. I deduce you’ve got him held somewhere nearby… given the fact that you were collecting seawater and have his scent all over you.” 

 

He said the last bit as if he were spitting poison, grey eyes narrowed accusingly. They were the colour of a storm, and behind them John could feel the weight of someone well-accustomed to power. Dangling as he was off the ground, the ex-army doctor clawed at the hand holding him in place, rapidly realising that if he was not careful, he could very well end up being drowned once again. The Selkie hissed into his ear. 

“Tell me human, how is it that you came to find him? Did you hunt him? Take his coat? If you did I assure you, you will not live to see another sunrise. The night comes quickly here, and when it does, I won’t hesitate to drag you down the beach and throw you to the rocks.” He said the last bit almost pleasantly, a sharp grin lighting up his features. It was like a sharpened weapon. “Were you hoping to sell his coat for a sum? I assure you, it’s not worth your while.”

 

“ _No_ …” John wheezed, struggling to keep his voice calm. He couldn’t reach for a weapon this time, and there was no discernable way to escape. His only hope for salvation at this point was to try and reason with the creature, despite the fact that the man before him seemed about as reasonable as a king lording over his land. “Didn’t kidnap him… he’s hurt… trying… trying to help.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” The Selkie replied boredly, “And if you’re going to be difficult, I’ll get the information out from you through less polite means.” The hand holding John up by his shirt flexed, moving to curl about the ex-army doctor’s throat. It was pure instinct that made John reach up, flailing to claw at the Selkie’s eyes, arms, anything. 

 

 

The silver glint of his scar flashed in the dark of the cove, the Selkie’s eyes latching upon it, cat-like and piercing. It seemed to happen in the span of a breath, though it may have been much longer, as John was beginning to panic at the lack of air going into his lungs. One moment he was being strangled, the next he was being unceremoniously dumped to the ground, his leg and shoulder tingling from the wet and cold and causing John to grit his teeth to suppress a pained moan. 

 

The Selkie towered over him like a malevolent god, those strange eyes shifting from blank with shock to calculating, the subtle furrowing of the creature’s brow the only indication that the Selkie was reeling with surprise. John struggled to rise, his limbs finally starting to mutiny after the rough treatment and the dip in the sea. His breath was pained and tight. Focused on his own well-being, the ex-army doctor nearly missed the inhalation of air, the breath of realisation quivering in the air. 

 

“I know who you are,” the Selkie murmured, and John thought to himself that it was a bad thing indeed that this creature seemed to know of him. He grunted in pain, finally giving up on standing even as he looked warily up at the creature before him. Sherlock’s brother… if that’s who this even was seemed to share the same habit of analysing, picking a person apart with their gaze. John felt like he was a clock pulled apart, pieces on display like live organs still beating and pumping blood under that stare. The Selkie’s voice was feather-soft. “You’re the one who Sherlock claimed all those years ago… that little boy he insisted would come back to him…” Brilliant grey eyes locked on him then, and a small sneer lit up the Selkie’s features, a mingling of annoyance and disgust. “You will take me to him. **_Now._** ” 

 

Behind that word, John felt the thrill of the creature’s song fill him. It was heavy – much heavier than Sherlock’s, commanding and more demanding. The army doctor felt his entire body tremble with it, the order of a king lancing through his mind and spearing it. Though John was stubborn, he found that even he could not disobey. A puppet pulled to his feet by invisible strings, the Selkie paused just long enough at the edge of the cove to glare at the risen sun in disdain. 

 

Then, John watched as the man untied his cloak from his naked hips with a small sigh, wrapping the sable material about his shoulders. Like a mirage the air shimmered, illusion cloaking reality, then John found himself standing next to a large, blubbery seal. Its massive head was lifted in a poised, graceful position, and liquid eyes looked up at him with imperiousness. It was gunmetal grey, flecked with brown freckles and a particularly distinguished marking in the centre of its forehead. Massive in comparison to John, it barked a rough, dog-like noise. Impatience became personified in the sound. 

 

Feeling not for the last time as if he was a pawn being jerked about a chess board, John felt his feet pulling forward against his will, towards the direction of the cottage. He could only gather enough control on his way to scoop up the half-filled pail of water, which had made its way meticulously back to shore, the way most things lost at sea did. 

The seal followed in silence behind him, long body leaving grooves in the rocky beach that would last until the tide pulled in deeper, erasing the secrets of the sea with blue-tinged hands. 

 

****

 

Sherlock was fairly sure he was dreaming. Images swam before the backs of his eyelids, flickering like lightning under the ocean’s blanketing embrace. Memories of maternal hands tilting his face up towards the crystalline moonlight, inspecting his cheeks for sticky remnants of food or some awful experiment. Those fingers melted away soon enough, replaced with the endless black of a starless sky. The ghost memory of muscle-burn from hours of swimming came back to Sherlock, his seal-form familiar to his human body, enough so that he could imagine it. He could visualise the flex of his tail, how his lungs held themselves so much longer than any humans could. He swam and swam, traveling further and further out into the exiles of the ocean, areas where no sane sea creature would traverse. Into the wilds of man. Shimmering and bending before him like the reflection of a rippled pool, Sherlock drifted in his own mind, lost in clouds of amber and deepest ethereal blue. It was some time before he even registered John’s return. 

 

Unfamiliar feet followed his human’s recognisable ones, and yet there was a timbre to them that the Selkie’s sensitive ears picked up on vaguely. Graceful but self-assured, as if the owner of said footsteps were walking in their own home. If he hadn’t been so lost in a haze of pain and burning, he might have been able to recognise the familiar pace of his brother, walking in the long shadows the walls of the cottage provided. 

 

John to his credit refused to bend to the strange Selkie’s will once he was inside the cottage, forcing his mind to wrench itself from the commanding air that had put a haze in his thoughts. He held the door open for the massive seal, having had to all but drag it up the steps, and the once-dignified creature looked rather ruffled and irritated as it slid itself inside. 

As the door closed and John moved on autopilot to close the curtains, the image of the seal shimmered, and the man once more knelt crouched and cat-like upon the hardwood floor. Rising nobly, the man wrapped his pelt once more about his hips, not even bothering to bestow John with a glance even as his eyes flicked towards the stairs. Ignoring the ex-army doctor’s cry of protest, Mycroft ascended the stairs without a backwards glance. John was left to scramble after the creature, cursing every step even as he forgot the pain in his leg. He carried the bucket in his hand. 


	18. Drowning In Deals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIVVVVVEEEE *mushu voice* 
> 
> sorry for the ridiculously long wait ^.^'' I do hope it's worth it though :) enjoy!

 

 

 _And time goes quicker_  
_Between the two of us_  
_Oh, my love, don’t forsake me_  
_Take what the water gave me_  
_Lay me down_  
_Let the only sound_  
_Be the overflow_  
_Pockets full of stones_  
_Lay me down_  
_Let the only sound_  
_Be the overflow_ **\- What The Water Gave Me,** **Florence and The Machine**

 

 

When Sherlock had been little, Mycroft had largely been the one to care for him. In Selkie culture, one’s parents were not necessarily one’s sole caretaker, and often the duty of caring for the children were left to the older youths, while adults were off during migrations hunting for food or a safe beach to rest on. As a result, the Selkie found that he knew the hands that touched him instinctively, the softness of the pads revealing a lifestyle different from his own but so very familiar.

 

The Selkie leaned into those hands involuntarily, a thick noise of confusion and question verbalising in a garbled string of sound. In response, a soft clicking noise of comfort came to him, followed by the cold wetness of sea water, splashed over his form. It was a blessing, something the Selkie leaned into hungrily. Sherlock cried out, a nonverbal sound of purest relief. He heard as if from far away his brother’s voice, rumbling out soothing complacencies that normally the Selkie would have scoffed at. As it was, it comforted him, Sherlock’s state child-like and frightened in the haze of what his people called _Sun Fever._

 

John, standing suddenly unsure in the doorway of his own bathroom, watched the exchange warily. He could still feel the hum of the strange, commanding song of the Selkie pinning him in place, commanding his presence and immobilising him so as to keep him from attacking unexpectedly. Yet it was lessened with the ginger-haired creature’s focus on Sherlock, the Selkie’s hands, sun-freckled and still wet, pouring the bucket of seawater John had been forced to bring in over Sherlock’s head.

 

The water slicked back those dark curls, turning the Selkie into a sleek but sickly-looking figure. Blue-green eyes the colour of the ocean opened by slits, and a weak and high note of question left the creature’s lips. The ginger-haired Selkie responded with a deep rumble, the kind that sunk into John’s very bones and left him feeling swaddled and safe. It was strange to see Sherlock so vulnerable, and for the first time John saw less of a monster and more of a man sitting in his bathtub.

 

It was a few minutes before the ginger-haired Selkie addressed John once more, his focus completely on his brother until Sherlock once more slipped into a fitful sleep. When John did feel those near-colourless grey eyes fixate upon him, it sent an unpleasant and curling shiver up his spine. When he rose, his height towered over John in the confines of the bathroom.

 

His sinuous movements were snake-like, predatory and dangerous. John was vividly reminded of his childhood, first seeing Sherlock on the shores. The Selkies looked human, but there was a missing piece, the telltale shred of humanity absent in their eyes. Instead there was _hunger,_ and John was beginning to grow used to being looked upon as prey.

 

The creature’s voice was posh, formal, but it did nothing to soothe John’s wariness. It rolled like cresting waves over him in the Queen’s English, British and so out of place with the brogue of most of Lispole.

“I am called Mycroft, and Sherlock is my brother. He… would likely refer to us as enemies. Arch-ones, even. Yet I… worry about him. _Constantly_ , much like you humans worry after your own. A mother does not part well from her pups, and my kin do not part well from their blood, similarly. My brother is missing his cloak. I can only assume you’ve taken it for protective measures.” A narrowing of those grey eyes “That will no longer be necessary. Give it to me, and we shall be on our way come nightfall.”

 

The offer was given casually, and John for a moment was taken aback by the simplicity of it. The option for things to go back to normal, to be as they were, was not a gift that could be considered lightly. The idea that he could treat all of this as a particularly lively nightmare appealed to the soldier deeply, if only for a barest moment. Then Sherlock shifted, groaning something unintelligible. His song was filled with only one question:

_John?_

 

It was strange, how that single word could spear the soldier in place, more effectively even than Mycroft’s soft-voiced elocution. John still could not tell if Sherlock’s voice was just naturally a magnet for him, or if the Selkie was just always, deliberately, trying to lure him in. Gritting his teeth, he had to admit to himself that it was working. Working well enough that his chin lifted in defiance, eyes flashing as he stated plainly,

“Sherlock came to me, tried to take me to… wherever it is your kind goes. The ocean. When he is better, he will be free to leave whenever he wants. All he has to do is ask me for his cloak.”

“My brother is ill because of _your_ actions. With no seal cloak to protect him from the sun, he’s become dehydrated. Direct sunlight kills us in too-high quantities. Aside from this, the fact remains that my brother aims to take you as his _Chosen_ , John Watson. Do tell me, do you plan on just letting him? Of giving up your life here, the people you’ve grown with?”

 

The way John’s gaze cast itself to the side was answer enough. Mycroft’s upper lip twitched in minute triumph, and he gestured the prone figure Sherlock made curled in the tub.

“You know nothing about us, our needs and our wants. How could you possibly think you could keep him like this? A pet or an experiment. Nothing more to you. And for him, you are… a relic of the past. A childhood curiosity that forced my brother to give up _everything_ he is.”

 

“I never asked him to!” John replied weakly to the verbal attack, his throat strangely tight. “I never… I didn’t know. I didn’t know he meant forever. I just wanted… I wanted a friend and I was small and stupid.” Behind his mind’s eye he saw it, his younger self. Crying and scared, he was always so scared. Confused. How _could_ he blame himself for wanting that? Wanting someone to care?

 

Mycroft’s voice was bland as he replied. Cold.

“Yes, well… be careful what you wish for. You’ve earned the love of a Selkie. Though I do not think a human deserves it, there is little to be done. Once bound, our kind can never give away our hearts again. We love so long as the ocean breathes.”

 

****

 

In the end, it took until nearly nightfall for Sherlock to find himself recovered enough to do little more than dream and sweat and grimace in pain. As it was, Mycroft took breaks from looking after his brother by making himself apparently comfortable in John’s flat, those flat grey eyes daring the army doctor to pass judgement as he rifled through the kitchen, stealing boxes of crackers and after a moment of consideration, the piece of salmon in the fridge that John had bought from the grocers. To his credit, the army doctor didn’t really complain, save to shoot the man a dark look as he carried the food out of the kitchen and upstairs towards the bathroom. John felt as though he couldn’t really, considering the fact that he’d flatly refused Mycroft’s demand at returning Sherlock’s cloak until he was well enough to request it himself.

 

The night fell with the temperature, dropping into coolness as John let himself stretch on the cottage’s front step, working the kinks out of his limbs. The sun was a bloody sphere in the sky, sinking down towards the horizon like a clock, silently ticking away towards darkness and the unknown. Leaning against the rail, John silently wondered just what his grandmother would have said, had she known that two of the creatures she so loved telling stories about were residing within the walls of her home. It was musing this thought that John didn’t notice the figure approaching the beach, not at least until Mrs Hudson’s cheerful voice called to him, a chirping, _“Yoo-hoo, John!”_

 

The army doctor looked down to see the old woman smiling at him, her curling white hair tousled by the wind and her soft purple cardigan billowing out behind her with the wind. Nervously, John ran down the steps, intending to head Mrs Hudson off before she could invite herself inside. John may not have known what his grandmother would have thought of the two Selkie’s residing in the cottage, but he had enough sense in him to know that the average person would be alarmed, if not afraid. John smiled widely at Mrs Hudson, greeting her with warmth even as he steered her towards having a seat on a large piece of driftwood upon the beach. He forced his voice to stay light and pleasantly surprised, even as out of the corner of his eye he could see the bedroom curtain moving, as if a curious gaze had snuck a glance from behind it.

 

“Mrs Hudson, what a surprise! Take a seat, please. I was just enjoying the sunset… It’s so beautiful out here.”

The old woman nodded in agreement, though now that John was closer he could see a kind of anxiousness about her. Mrs Hudson was looking at him with evident relief in her eyes, the kind that was clearly stemming from fear as she laced her hands together in her lap, seating herself with only a mild complaint about her “old bones and stubborn hip”. John took a seat beside her, his own internal panic melting into concern and curiosity as Martha nervously tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear.

 

“Oh John, thank goodness you’re alright. I came to check on you, what since no one saw you leave the barbeque a few nights ago and what with recent events… I feared for the worst.”

“Events? What’s happened?” John’s brows furrowed, confused by the way Mrs Hudson twisted the beads of her necklace, avoiding his gaze. Her voice was low, filled with dread as she confided to him.

“Last night… two children went missing. Cara and Thomas White. The Whites have lived here for years, since Sydney married Marcus and settled down here. Their children apparently went exploring like they usually did and… _oh John.”_ The old woman’s eyes watered then, and John instinctively moved his arms to wrap them about Mrs Hudson’s frail shoulders. She began to cry, sobs that wracked her frame and made her quiver. “I looked after them, sometimes. I’ve looked over most of the kids in town. We’re a small community… your grandmother would have said something dark was on our shores… who would _do_ such a thing?”

 

John didn’t know, but his mouth set itself into a grim line as he thought. He had seen kidnappings in war, hostage situations, but none of that really compared. He had experienced a war zone, and this was a sleepy little town that ran mostly on fishing. Who in their right mind would have anything to gain from a kidnapping? The chilling thought that there could be nothing to gain was unthinkable. People could be monsters, John knew this. Still, he couldn’t frighten Mrs Hudson. Not like that. He forced his best smile on his face, hugging her reassuredly.

“It will be okay, Mrs H. The police will get it sorted, you’ll see.”

Mrs Hudson sniffed, reaching into her pocket for an embroidered handkerchief. The old woman blew into it noisily, wiping away the tears from her eyes.

“I’m afraid John, they might be out of their depth.” Her eyes glowed luminously in the halo of the sunset, and for an instant, John felt a shiver down his spine, as if the old woman was seeing a sliver of events to come.

 

****

 

Mrs Hudson left soon enough with the knowledge that John was well, urging the man to be careful and not walk alone along the beach at night. Her parting gift: a small basket of lemon cakes. John accepted them with a small smile, nostalgia of the many months he had once spent at his grandmother’s cottage bringing back old flavours of summer and lemonade and joy.

 

That joy soon dissipated however upon his return into his own home, the shadows of two figures standing in his living room sending reality crashing back to him. John looked at Sherlock, who seemed a little pale but otherwise healthy, feeling a prickle of apprehension consume him. He had earlier tied the Selkie up for a reason, and with him now free John could see the smooth, predatory muscle along the Selkie’s bare abdomen and shoulders. Combined with the added backup of his brother, John knew that he would stand no chance, not if Sherlock truly decided that he wanted him.

 

 _I should have said a proper goodbye to Mrs Hudson._ John thought somewhat morbidly. _I should have told her how much Harriet and I always loved her lemon cake._

Pale blue eyes flicked to his face, and Sherlock’s song hummed soft and quiet.

_John._

“Sherlock,” he murmured in kind, head tilting in question. There was less fear, now. Somehow, he had seen vulnerability during the Selkie’s illness. Though he didn’t quite see Sherlock as human (and really perhaps never would) he could acknowledge the fact that the Selkie wasn’t a monster from a fairy tale. Rather, both brothers seemed intelligent, and what’s more capable of compassion. That in the end, was what kept John still, kept him from running. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him like food, no. He was looking like he was in pain, suffering from some unseen pull that John just simply couldn’t see.

 

It was for this reason that John decided to make a deal. It was impulsive, mad even, but then again, most Watsons were at least a little of both. He could picture his grandmother, cheering him on from wherever she was now. The image strengthened his resolve.

“We both have things that the other wants. Your cloak. My… freedom. So I propose an… an agreement.”

John was only a little surprised when Mycroft translated for his brother, impassive brow raised in amusement. He watched as Sherlock’s head tilted to the side, reptilian and curious. John licked his lips before continuing.

“Y-you want your cloak back, but you also want m-me.” Saying it made it more real somehow. Still John pressed onwards. “Give me two months, about sixty nights to decide whether or n-not I want you. Get to know me. Let _me_ know _you._ If after two months I think we can be together… at least friends… I’ll go with you.”

 

Mycroft translated all of this, disbelief heavy in his voice. For a long while, Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead he studied the human before him, taking in John’s fear, his scent. There was that lingering desire, that wish to take him, pull him to the ocean and swim, swim until Sherlock’s lungs were burning for air. Yet John’s would burn long before then, he knew that now. He also now knew that humans lied, lied like deceit was silver candy on their tongues. John could lie, and to Sherlock it would sound like the most beautiful promises. For his kind did not, and could not deceive. He was no longer a pup; he would not be made a fool of. When the Selkie at last spoke, it was with coldness.

_How do I know your words are truth? What will you do if I just refuse and take you with me, now?_

 

John’s jaw clenched and he prepared himself for backlash. “You’re just going to have to trust me. And if you try, I’ll burn your coat. You’ll be stuck here, on land forever.”

Sure enough, the fight that erupted next was unprecedented, and violent.


	19. Tiptoe Round One Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there ^_^ I hope you enjoy, this chapter was edited by my lovely beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) :) thank you so much!

 

 

 _‘Cause they took your loved ones_  
_But returned them in exchange for you_  
_But would you have it any other way?_  
_Would you have it any other way?_  
_You couldn't have it any other way_  
  
_‘Cause she’s a cruel mistress_  
_And a bargain must be made_  
_But oh, my love, don’t forget me_  
_When I let the water take me_ **-** **What The Water Gave Me, Florence And The Machine**

 

 

To threaten a Selkie’s coat was to threaten their tie to the sea, and if one knew anything about Selkies at all they would recognise the danger and cruelty of such an action. A wild animal was never meant to be kept indoors, and John saw the wild in Sherlock and Mycroft both as their lips curled in twin snarls, eyes silver chips of moonlight. Together their gazes could have made most grown men flinch, yet John held his ground. 

 

His jaw clenched as the elder Holmes took one menacing step closer, expression flat and deadly. The glint of Mycroft’s cloak shimmered under the cabin’s lights as he invaded John’s personal space, his height intimidating and commanding attention as much as his posture. It was an attack, albeit a silent one, and John weathered it with an arched eyebrow and a look of disinterest. He was more focused on Sherlock’s face, angry but at the same time piercing, thoughtful. It was merging more into interested the longer that John held his ground, and the closer that Mycroft came to his mate. 

 

“You think threats will work? You live on the edge of our domain, our land. The Holmes Tribe does not bend to compromise, especially when dealing with humans.” Mycroft hissed the last word like it was bile, eyes narrowed to slits and calm demeanour gone in the wake of something cold and terrifying. John knew enough about seals from his grandmother to know that aggression was shown through snarling and body contact – and wasn’t surprised by the rumble in the elder Holmes’ voice nor the way his body came to cage about his smaller form. It was an intimidation tactic, and John very much doubted that Mycroft was used to having anyone question his supremacy. 

“You’re in my cabin, on my dry land. Here, I am in charge, _ta_ very much, and I will not bend to your rules just because you’re not used to someone telling you no.”

 

The wind howled with this statement, moaning and clattering against the windows, and John resisted the urge to flinch when Mycroft’s pale eyes flicked over his form as if he were something worth killing just for sport, not even for eating. He spoke to Sherlock without turning away from John, a series of clicks and rumbles that sounded argumentative and commanding. Translating or insulting, John wasn’t quite sure. Sherlock gave nothing away in his expression as he appeared to mull over whatever it was that his brother had told him, glass eyes narrowed and calculating. He made an inquisitive clucking sound, and though John couldn’t comprehend its resonance, it was clear that whatever Sherlock had said earned Mycroft’s disapproval. The older Selkie stiffened, uttering a series of harsh, guttural growls. The tone of them made John think of a mother scolding their child, and Sherlock acted much like a five-year-old put in time out, scowling and crossing his arms over his chest. He responded with a high whine, something that sounded distinctly animal, inhuman. 

 

Mycroft’s lips tightened into a moue of displeasure. His focus returned to John, but it was clear his mood had only darkened as he murmured through lips that were stiff with annoyance. “My brother seems to think the threat of his coat a worthy-enough deal for the possible gains he could receive. His main question however is to what extent must he appear human? Is he to go outside with you? Meet other humans? If so he’ll struggle in daylight, as today has shown.”

“Only what he’s comfortable with, what he thinks will convince me of the… benefits of joining you,” John murmured the last bit softly, privately thinking that Sherlock’s side of things was going to be a losing, uphill battle. 

 

Sherlock seemed to understand at least the gist of the last sentence, because a surprisingly enthusiastic and rather shark-like smile lit up the Selkie’s features, a glittering and deadly smirk that made the hair on the back of John’s neck rise. The Selkie purred something, but he was no longer speaking but singing, wishing John to hear his tentative inquiry even as he looked at the soldier like he was a prize to be put onto display. 

 _And if I do not feel comfortable outside?_ _Will_ _you stay with me here until the two months have ended? It’s only fair to give me as much time as possible to woo you._

John knew Stockholm syndrome and its effects, but he also knew that the Selkie had trapped him inside of his own deal. He swallowed tightly, considering the angle. On the one hand, two months spent trapped inside of a small cabin with no one for company but a mythical beast sounded like something out of a nightmare. On the other hand, John knew that if Sherlock wanted to win his approval at all, he would quickly discover that he valued his own freedom. The doctor’s hands clenched by his side, his mind made up. With his decision, he saw Mycroft’s nostrils flare (space) – silent exasperation.

 

“It’s a deal, then.”

Sherlock’s smile only grew, a Cheshire Cat aglow with possibility. It left in John a twisting sick feeling, liquid and slick. It was as if he were slowly sinking into something both intangible, and inescapable.

 

****

When the moon rose, Mycroft took his leave with a chilly look in John’s direction and muttered words towards his brother. Sherlock had watched him leave with snappish impatience, a hound already on its scent and just waiting for the opportune moment to act upon his will. He paced restlessly, eyes unnaturally blue with the glow of the moon peering through the clouds, turning the water into crystal shards of a mirror, reflective and mysterious. 

 

Mycroft’s face was not pleased as he wrapped his cloak about his shoulders once more, preparing for the shifting of his other form as he came to the front door of John’s home. His pale, reflective eyes matched the moonlight outside as he bid his farewells, and John watched with his arms crossed uneasily over his chest as the Selkie made their way along the beach, disappearing into the water with a negligent flick of their tail. The water looked cold, and John shivered against the chill wind even as he shut the door, squaring his shoulders to face the shadow of the man standing before him. 

The first thing John noticed was that Sherlock was still distractingly bare and that he held himself as if he weren’t particularly concerned with whether or not he maintained any sense of decency. He was an expanse of pale skin, muscles toned from years of hard swimming, and pale scars littered his arms and torso like cruel whiplashes. Sherlock’s hair was as dark as the ocean that normally bore him, and it still had a natural curl to it that made John’s hands twitch in longing to touch. Yet in the man’s posture was a potential for predatory behaviour, and John saw how Sherlock’s pale eyes tracked his movements, a shark testing blood in the water. Unashamed of his own sensuality or nudity, Sherlock licked his lower lip, his gaze flicking knowingly towards where John’s cock was stirring unwillingly in interest.

_Down, boy._

 

“Well,” John managed after a beat of awkward silence. He scratched the back of his head, looking away and at the floor before turning to step towards the broom cupboard. He opened it, speaking as he rummaged for spare sheets to put in the guest bedroom. Blue, blue would look best… “It’s just you and me now I guess. You’re gonna have to get some clothing, but for the first few days at least you can borrow an old T-shirt and maybe the bathrobe gran left behind. It’s the blue one in the wooden chest beside the fireplace,” John chattered on as he mentally tallied up the amount of pillowcases he had folded in his arms, determinedly not looking in Sherlock’s direction all the while. He could feel the man in his personal space, however, hovering behind him. 

 

When John turned, he willed himself not to jump out of his own skin at how close the Selkie had become. Sherlock was somewhat ludicrously tall, and now John’s head had to tilt upwards to match his face, his breathing coming a little more shortly at the intensity in which those blue eyes looked back, unblinking. When Sherlock sang, it was the softest of vibrations, the likes of which made the doctor shudder with something other than fear. Sherlock looked at him as if he were a puzzle, and one spider-like hand reached out lazily, plucking at the hem of John’s jumper as if it were mildly offensive. He seemed to understand at least most of what John was saying, a frightening leap in clarity in the language. John wondered just how _quickly_ Selkies learned, if not acted upon their education. 

_My kind do not see the point in such attire… We require nothing but our pelts and the ocean to hide our skin._

 

“Yes, well. You’re going to find it a bit chilly without something at night,” John managed to respond, even as he pushed Sherlock’s fingers away while struggling to remind himself of his goal. Sherlock’s song was no longer like it had been as a child, high and sweet. No, it was a low baritone, and it pulled at something in John’s chest and made it difficult to think, to breathe. It made him want nothing more than to come to Sherlock’s arms, to feel the warmth of the bare, beautiful creature’s skin. John could imagine it, plucking away his woollen jumper, letting those large and delicate hands trace themselves over his shoulders and arms. He would be shorter than Sherlock, so he might have to stand on tiptoes to taste those lips. What would they feel like? They looked soft and were gently parted, wrapped around the barely-perceptible notes of a melody- 

 

That’s when John’s mind screamed at him, and he snapped back to himself to glare up at the Selkie, harshly rebuking his call. 

“That’s _enough!_ If you want to even have a hope of seducing me you’re going to have to do something more than sing. I don’t appreciate being manipulated, if you think that’s all it’s going to take then you can just _sod off_ now and save us _both_ time and trouble.”

Sherlock’s expression, once open and beguiling, now flattened into something critical. He eyed John with scientific interest, a rumbling purr leaving his lips in melodic harmony that was filled with fascination and confusion alike.

_Interesting. It’s difficult for you, but you can resist my call._

Those pale eyes flicked to John’s lower half, and an echo of an impish smirk touched the Selkie’s lips. 

_Perhaps not entirely unaffected, however._

He sang.

 

John struggled to reign in the flush that overtook his neck and ears at the creature’s comment, scowling even as Sherlock, seeming to have lost interest for the moment, flounced away towards the wooden chest where he would find a silken blue robe, and a cacophony of quilted blankets. The Selkie, despite his protests towards John’s wardrobe choices, appeared to have little to no qualms about exploring the cabin that would be his new home for a while with a blanket trailing about his shoulders like a cloak.

Wearily, John decided that he was going to need tea tonight. Lots and _lots_ of tea.

 

****

 

Sherlock had a plan for wooing his mate, despite what his brother seemed to think. Lying with lackadaisical limpness on the couch, the Selkie’s pale eyes seemed to glow in the dark like beacons. John, after restlessly setting a cup of strange, boiled liquid on the side table for Sherlock to consume, had tottered off upstairs, citing exhaustion as the culprit of his absence. The Selkie didn’t believe him, as not a moment later there had been the sounds of pacing on the upper floors, worn beams giving John away as much as the tense line of his mouth.

 

The first step in the plan was to get that line of tension to leave the man’s features, also his general expression of exhaustion. The Selkie remembered his childhood friend as a bright-eyed boy without much care in the world, eager to see and explore. This John was tired, beaten down by the world, and Sherlock itched to take the tension away from John’s shoulders, see that carefree expression directed towards him once more. He longed for it like a drug. Sherlock had to get John to believe in magic again, and the man’s fingers trailed along the silken edges of the strange, gifted robe and nodded his head to himself in affirmation. 

 

First step: Operation “Make John Believe in Sherlock Holmes”. 


	20. Warm and Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? an update??? so soon???? I know, it's a small miracle. I hope it makes up for the long waits with this fic at times. ^_^
> 
> As always, many thanks to my wonderful beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for their amazing work :)

 

 

 _The bluest skies turn into gray_  
_Through tortured eyes I watched you change_  
_A paradise went up in flames_  
 _And though I cried a thousand times_  
_You didn't hear the rising tide_  
_There's nowhere left to hide since you have been_  
 _Swallowed up by the ocean_ **\- Swallowed Up By The Ocean, Billy Talent**

 

 

 **_Not much is known about the mating habits of Selkies. Though many have_ ** **_theorised_ ** **_, few have actually ever been courted by their kind without leaving with them and joining the ocean. As it_ ** **_is,_ ** **_what little is known shows that Selkies in general tend to_ ** **_practise_ ** **_a complex ritual heavily enriched by their culture. A potential suitor will often begin the courtship through gift-giving and shared dancing, the trinkets given to the eye of their affections being semi-precious stones, colourful sea glass, and other beautiful things to be found in the waters of their home. Both_ ** **_Selkies_ ** **_will participate in this courtship, exchanging gifts. The person giving a gift in return should make it thematic to the first person’s offering in some way_ ** **_..._ **

 

John woke without having really realised he had dozed off, a crick aching in his neck from falling asleep propped against his headboard. The book he had been reading lay discarded in his lap, the tome on mythical creatures staring up at him innocently and yet accusing John of giving in to his impulse to learn all he could about Sherlock’s unseen world. He blinked at it somewhat grumpily, groaning as he forced himself to rise. Everything hurt – it felt like he had been running a marathon lately. 

 

Thoughts of a nice quiet morning dissipated like soap bubbles as he saw that the moon hung outside, silvery and heavy in the night sky. Its light painted its way across his face, past the door where a shadow stood quietly, likely the source of John’s awakening. Sherlock was dressed in the hand-me-downs that John had managed to scavenge for him; a blue jumper that was too short at the sleeves but too wide in the middle and light blue jeans. Those pale eyes seemed to glow nocturnally in the dark, and a rumbling voice echoed lightly, singing a lilting verse that ended in question. 

 

_Midnight hours, midnight strolls, midnight oceans come and go?_

 

John cracked a yawn, rubbing his eyes before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His voice was rueful, thick with sleepiness that faded away as he saw the restless tick in the Selkie’s hands.

“Don’t understand what you’re trying to say. We really need to pick you up a language book or two if we’re doing this for the long term.”

 

Sherlock’s scowl, evident frustration at his lack of understanding of John’s words made the soldier chuckle slightly, even as the Selkie dove forward, resting an instant out of John’s personal comfort bubble. It was a last second move, brought on by John’s instinctive flinch. Sherlock’s expression was impatient, and his eyes flicked towards the darkness, outside. John felt a tingling along his spine, unfamiliar adrenaline pricking his blood as Sherlock hummed a wheedling melody of desire. 

 _Moonlight calls, moonlight calls. John Watson, why do humans not hear its song? They miss the beauty…_ _they_ _miss her singing._

 

“I don’t… Sherlock do you want to go outside? At this time of night?” John supposed it was a rather stupid question in retrospect, but the baleful look the Selkie gave him made him lick his lips and resist the urge to say something scathing. Only the Selkie’s apparent wanting, the clearest of longings too obvious for even John to miss curbed his tongue, and the soldier considered his options. It was clear that Sherlock wanted to show John something – whether that something was delightful or sinister quite frankly the doctor wasn’t completely sure. With no access to his pelt, there was no way that the Selkie would be able to drag John into the water. Their agreement meant that the Selkie wouldn’t do it anyway, if the book John had been reading was correct. Though crafty about half-truths, once a Selkie made a vow or deal they were bound to honour its pact. To not do so would in theory, turn the creature to sea foam. 

 

John wasn’t sure how much faith he put in questionable information from a very old book of fairytales, but he did know that Sherlock looked uncharacteristically earnest in his desires. Like a child requesting to play outside in the rain, the Selkie shifted from foot to foot, eyes luminous and hopeful in the dark. Sighing to himself, John recognised that for the next while at least, he was probably going to have to get used to being nocturnal. 

“Alright, gimme a minute to get ready, yeah?”

The smile the Selkie returned with was both triumphant and just ever so slightly impish. 

 

****

The rocky shore glittered like jewels in the darkness, and Sherlock picked his way along in bare feet, heedless of the possibility of sharp shells beneath his toes. John walked behind him more slowly and in shoes, the crunch of his solid footsteps a faithful indicator of his following. John watched the Selkie’s silhouette nervously, tall and strong and bare. Though it was technically private property, the beach wasn’t exactly the most secluded of places, and the thought of anyone seeing Sherlock, naked and moonlight-white filled him with a surprising amount of possessiveness. There was of course the fear of being caught out beside a man completely naked out in the somewhat admittedly sheltered public of the cottage’s grounds, but more than that it was the small voice in the back of John’s head that whispered that Sherlock was a welcome sight. 

He hadn’t found anyone interesting in such a very long time, his romantic interests reduced to a grey area, a source of numbness like a severed limb after the wake of his injury. Part of it was due to the blow in his own self-confidence, a point Ella had been sure to underline and stress for him. Yet a larger part was that John had felt until this point that there had been no real reason to date, no point. He hadn’t planned exactly to have a future at all, and to find his heart racing unexpectedly in his chest, alight with reluctant fascination was at once welcome and somewhat irritating. 

 

Sherlock, apparently uncaring or unaware of his own ethereal nature, lead John unerringly towards the water. John watched how the waves seem to jump in excitement with the Selkie’s approach, swelling and reaching outwards as if to brush Sherlock’s bare toes. John watched as a small coil of tension that had gone unnoticed previously loosened itself from the Selkie’s shoulders with its greeting, a rumbling noise leaving Sherlock’s mouth that was a mix of filthiest praise and contentment. John watched further up the shore in a mixture of amusement and embarrassment as Sherlock dove like a fish, submerging himself into the water only to sinuously reappear a moment later. Jewels of water turned silver in his curls, slicked back and shimmering as he twisted to look at John, cheeks flushed happily and a hum resonating through the water that made the soldier’s toes curl. Expecting a long night and content to watch, John saw himself down on the shore, stretching out his bad leg with a mild grimace before settling in to look at the stars. 

 

Sherlock though, appeared to have other ideas. After about fifteen minutes of splashing about, John heard a rather sulky sounding clicking noise, and he looked down towards the shoals to see a pouting Selkie regarding him with a mixture of confusion and irritation. 

 

Sherlock’s leonine body cut an imposing figure in the water, and smooth muscle made a glittering outline as the Selkie lifted his arm, gesturing at John impatiently to come closer. It might have been an invitation to play, if the army doctor wasn’t fixated on the sharp nails that tipped Sherlock’s fingers, or how sharp his teeth appeared to be in the moonlight when he parted those plush lips to sing. 

 

_Let me show you my ocean._

 

He cooed pleadingly, swimming back to shore long enough to emerge dripping and crouched upon the beach. He looked to John before gesturing towards the black waters, pale arm pointing somewhere on the horizon. His voice took on the familiar hypnotic quality that the Selkie favoured when he was wheedling with John, a song that did not rhyme and yet flowed like waves lapping in one’s ear. 

 

_I could show you the dance of the water nymphs, take you far out into the sea. I could bring you shells of colours and worth, and taste the salt of freedom._

 

A crafty expression slunk its way over Sherlock’s features then, and playfully the Selkie crept forward to John’s shoulder, breathing just inside his natural comfort zone and making the air feel heated. His voice was gently mocking. 

 

_Don’t you want that, my Chosen? The land has changed you, made you afraid. You are not the boy that left me on the beach all that while ago._

 

John swallowed tightly, averting his eyes away from the Selkie’s piercing stare. His expression changed from amused to brooding before Sherlock’s eyes, the soldier plucking at the cuff of his trousers even as he evasively replied. 

“Yes, well. You’re not much like the kid I met either. You’ve… grown colder, somehow.” 

 

John wasn’t sure how much English Sherlock understood, but he had the feeling he was doing his best to learn as quickly as possible. The Selkie was watching his lips move as he shaped words, and a rumbling question that for once was not in song came from the creature, laced with confusion. 

“Cold?”

Sherlock’s voice, already like thunder in John’s head, felt as if it were in an even deeper resonance when he was actually speaking. The Selkie’s head was tilted in question, and confusion wrinkled the furrow of Sherlock’s brow and made the normally smooth plane of his forehead crease. John licked his lips, abruptly trying to think of a way to explain the concept of cold with limited vocabulary. His eyes trailed to the many stones littering the shore, one hand reaching out and dipping into a shallow pool to grab one at random. It was deep grey, smooth and ice-cold from seawater, and before the Selkie could protest John pressed it to his upper arm, watching Sherlock hiss in annoyance at its chill. 

“That’s _cold.”_ John grinned a bit, watching as the Selkie sulkily rubbed the spot where the rock had come into contact. The soldier saw a bit of the child he had once known in the petty wrinkling of Sherlock’s nose, lordly disgust at the world making John fight a smile even as he curled the stone close to his lips, breathing hot air over its surface. Sherlock watched, reluctantly fascinated even as John once again pressed the stone to the skin of the Selkie’s arm. The soldier’s voice was indulgent, quiet as he gifted Sherlock with new vocabulary. “That is _warm.”_

 _“Warm.”_ Sherlock tried the word out, letting it roll over his tongue. The sensation of heat from the stone was brief, but the temperature that rose off of John’s skin beneath his lumpy-looking human clothes suggested the same fleeting sensation of comfort. The Selkie, trying to fully understand the meaning behind the term pressed one hand to John’s sternum, invading the last of his personal space with one obscenely spindly hand. 

“John… is… _warm.”_

 

Feeling the spread of Sherlock’s fingers against his chest John swallowed, noticing how the Selkie’s eyes tracked the bobbing of his Adam’s apple like a shark seeking out blood. Those pale fingers did not leave John’s body but moved instead tentatively upwards, seeking out contact in the tracing of the soldier’s collarbones. John, frozen either from fear or from the crackling adrenaline building inside of him from the feeling of the Selkie’s sharp nails against his throat, hardly dared to move. 

 

It was in the end Sherlock’s choice to move away, and he did so just as John felt as though he might lash out. The Selkie rose to his feet smoothly, all angles and grace, his bare backside on unselfconscious display. The creature’s scars were shiny and whip-like, curved over corded muscle and flesh. John’s eyes were drawn to them just as much as they were unwillingly drawn towards the bow of Sherlock’s strong calves or the slender arch of his neck. Standing strong in the dark, the Selkie’s eyes were ghost-like as he sang once more, bare feet already moving towards the ocean. 

 

_Come dance with me? Come taste the sea?_

 

John’s voice roughly answered, even as his fingers twitched in reluctant longing. 

“Could be dangerous,” he muttered, and though Sherlock could not have possibly have understood, he seemed to read something in the man’s body language. The Selkie smiled, and it was a small, surprisingly gentle thing as those slender hands reached towards the shore, picking out something amongst the bracken and stones. Sherlock knelt towards John only to grab the man’s wrist, hand covering the old Bond-mark. It was a silver moon of flesh, as colourless as the Selkie’s eyes. John found deposited in his palm was a smooth piece of sea glass, but its colour was unusual and eye-catching. The colour of teal, it sat a nearly perfect marble in John’s palm. As he held it up to the moonlight, something prickled in the back of John’s neck. It took him a moment to recognise it as Sherlock’s song, cautiously humming as he knelt, as if waiting impatiently for John’s reaction. The Selkie’s voice was soft as it traced the glass in John’s palm before curling his blunt fingers over its surface. 

 

“It’s _cold_ ,” Sherlock murmured, pale eyes considering. John didn’t have time to move before the Selkie was very suddenly in his personal space, plush lips pressed lightly against the chill tip of his nose. The sudden heat of it made John’s ears burn. The Selkie leaned back, nodding his head as if satisfied with himself. “It’s _warm_.”

He smiled, immensely pleased with himself, before standing and running off back towards the water. 

John was so busy staring dumbstruck at the glittering droplets of water Sherlock left behind that he failed to notice that the Selkie had kept the rock he’d originally used to explain words to him with. The creature dived into the waters to find a notch or grotto in which he could temporarily store his newfound greatest treasure.


	21. Appletarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ I have been away for a while, applications have ruined my life DX but I hope you enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) . Seriously, you rock.

 

_So take this anchor from my heart_

_So we can finally drift apart_  
_Before we drown in sorrow_  
 _I gave you sanctuary_  
_Under the sun we lived care free_  
_I tried so hard to love you **-**_ **Swallowed Up By The Ocean, Billy Talent**

 

The creaking of the house moaned in counterpoint to John’s thoughts, seated in his chair with the memory of saltwater swirling cold about his ankles. It had been as far as he’d been willing to trod into the ocean, resisting Sherlock’s wheedling songs and doe-like eyes, despite the fact that the creature used both without hesitation in an attempt to achieve what he desired. The Selkie appeared to have no issue with tugging on John’s heartstrings, aware despite the soldier’s well-placed armour that the man had a  soft spot for memories of his childhood. 

 

Upon stepping into the crystalline waters, John had been hit with images of his past. They had almost staggered him with their weight, afternoons with his grandmother leaving the taste of jam sandwiches and sand on his tongue. His eyes had fluttered closed with it, only to open again when Sherlock’s questioning voice had brought him back to the present. 

 

Now, with the light of daybreak just beginning to paint the sky a rosy hue, John watched Sherlock doze upon the sofa across from him,  like a lackadaisical cat gazing at him with a lidded gaze. Though John was already beginning to drift to sleep from the long night and the action of the past few days, Sherlock appeared to not need as much rest. He lay curled up on the piece of furniture, yet his gaze was alert as it flicked about the cottage. John had the distinct impression that the creature was  categorising , mentally labelling objects about the living room and guessing as to their function and purpose. 

“You can ask, y’know,”  John muttered,  unsure if Sherlock would understand. The Selkie’s mercurial gaze flitted to him with the sound of his voice, interested but blank with incomprehension. 

 

Sighing, John forced himself to rouse, straightening to stand and feeling the familiar phantom ache in his leg that had begun fading out with Sherlock’s presence. He must have been tired, then. His hand reached out, grabbing the first thing he could find along the polished mantel. It happened to be the book on Selkies he had been reading, its worn edges feeling textured and familiar in his hands. Turning to Sherlock, John pointed to its outline, enunciating carefully. 

“Book.”

 

Sherlock blinked, sitting up a little more fully as he registered John’s intention. The rumbling hum of the Selkie’s voice mimicked him eagerly. 

_“Book.”_

“Good, that’s… that’s _good_.”  John grinned a little despite himself. He would have to go out, get some children’s books, texts on the English language. Sherlock appeared eager to learn, almost hungry. It was obvious that he was convinced that communication was the key in earning John’s approval, and honestly, John wanted to encourage it. There was something oddly endearing about Sherlock when he was curious, a glimpse of the child John had known. 

He set the book down, moving towards a small knick-knack left upon the mantel. It was the skull of a heron, something his mother as a little girl had picked up along the rocky shores and brought back to grandmother. Cleaned and polished now, it glinted in the low light of the living room. John pointed at it, enunciating slowly. 

_“Skull.”_

Sherlock, blinking slowly before breaking into a small smile, repeated John enthusiastically. 

Little did John realise that Sherlock, thinking John meant  herons in general, was now thinking of all the ways in which he could fascinate the  man if he could only catch one of these strange _“Skulls”._

 

****

Eventually, John wound up having to slip off to sleep, trusting Sherlock only a little not to wake him up or set anything on fire. The Selkie seemed to view rest as optional, but for a Human, John was already pushing the limits of his exhaustion. 

 

He fell asleep tucked in his bed, curled up and unable to explain the shivery feeling of a pair of heterochromic eyes watching him carefully in the shadow of his bedroom. 

 

****

 

With  his slumber, dreams both dark and terrifying threatened to sink their claws into  John .  He found himself dreaming of sand, hot and dry and caught in the grooves of his teeth. It tasted like copper, and when he spat onto the ground the dust beneath him was stained red. He braced his hands beneath himself, fingers becoming tacky with the blood that was pooling rapidly out beneath him. 

Someone was shouting into a radio, to the right of him. It took John a second to recognise it as Murray’s voice, young and high with desperation. He couldn’t make out the words, a high keening in his ears that he couldn’t quite rid himself of drowning out all sound. 

 

It was then John realised that he was half-slumped over a body, the memory twisting the form beneath him, leaving him breathless with agony like he once had been at the almost-death of one of his lads. Wilson. Wilson had nearly been shot. John had pushed him at the last second, the bullet grazing the man, sinking into John’s shoulder instead and claiming the flesh like bared teeth. 

It was then that the pain slammed into him, and John opened his lips to scream. 

His wrist burned. 

 

****

Sherlock watched as his Human writhed under the  bedcovers, uncertain as to what action to take. John’s energy stirred a slow hunger in the Selkie, something deeply tantalising about the way the man jolted before him, prey on a hook. Yet the sound of John’s whimpers made something in Sherlock’s chest churn uncomfortably, and beads of sweat stood out on John’s forehead, the night terror he was currently trapped in leaving him breathless. 

 

Cautiously, Sherlock unfolded himself from the crouching home he had made in the shadow of the bedroom curtains, pale feet avoiding patches of sunlight without thinking even as he approached John soundlessly. The Selkie’s dark curls gleamed as he stood over the compact body of the  man , and blue eyes flickered over his twitching form. John was muttering something under his breath, and though Sherlock couldn’t understand all of the words, he identified his name, spoken almost as a plea. 

 

It was enough to drive him to action, and without much thinking Sherlock reached out with spindly fingers, entwining them about John’s wrist, exposed and silver with scar tissue. With the contact the Selkie stiffened, images flickering before his eyes that were not his own memories, but the reflection of the mind he was now linked to.

 

****

John bled and the blood turned into saltwater, drowning everything in its path. It washed away Murray, Wilson and the sand, turning gold dust into emerald green waves. John floated in it, lost and paddling even as the blazing agony in his shoulder seemed to only burn hotter with salt rubbing itself in the wound. It burned in his lungs too, drawing his breath from his chest and making him gasp in agony. He sank into the depths of the water, darkness eclipsing his vision, his heart pounding in his ears as the pressure of the ocean wrapped around him from all sides. 

 

Someone’s hands were touching, pulling at his shoulders. Strong arms tugged under his armpits, hauling him upwards with unnatural strength. John kicked weakly, eyes opening and seeing through the haze of the saltwater a familiar face. How Sherlock entered his dreams, he didn’t know. Yet the Selkie now faced him, dark curls splaying outwards in a fan about his sharp features, the water making him seem paler, ethereal. 

John gasped as long hands brushed along either side of his face, Sherlock’s blue eyes considering him as if he were some kind of puzzle. The shifting nature of the creature’s eyes made them seem like kaleidoscopes, John’s vision rapidly blurring to nothing as oxygen left his system by the second.

The soldier was unresisting when Sherlock’s fingers tilted his chin upwards carefully, and plush lips formed a seal over his own. Prying his mouth open, Sherlock breathed into John’s mouth, giving oxygen and in the process bestowing John with life as the Human’s lungs drank it in with greed. 

 

The scene dissolved into bubbles and foam, melting away as John came back to his bed, sweating and twisted up in the sheets as if he were engaged in mortal combat with them. It took John a moment to realise that the back of his hand was stinging, and a moment longer to see the curled form of Sherlock on the floor, cupping his cheek that burned pink from being struck. The Selkie was watching John with wide, wary eyes, and John wondered blearily to himself if the furrow of the man’s brows was actually concerned. 

He didn’t think much past that however, as  he soon realised what it was that had broken him from the spell of his nightmares. A shrill ringing was sounding through the house, the doorbell screaming plaintively for someone to come answer. 

 

John felt a curling tendril of dread in his gut as he flicked a glance at Sherlock, realising that with the thatch of sunlight just streaming a thin line from the closed curtains that it had to be well into the afternoon. There were only a few people that would bother to see him, and none of them could know about the man that was currently looking in the direction of the stairs in interest, clearly curious about the noise. Sitting up, John scrubbed a hand through his hair, darting an apologetic look in Sherlock’s direction.

“ _Christ._ I didn’t mean to, that is. Um, sorry. Are you alright?” The Selkie looked at John, a lack of comprehension in his eyes. 

John muttered a low oath, taking it as a lost cause even as he forced himself to stand, limping shakily towards his dresser. His leg twinged, grousing about the sudden call to action. It was as he was rifling through his clothes, shouting an affirmation that he had heard the bell down the stairs that Sherlock moved, rising on soundless feet to sing an inquiry in John’s direction. Or rather, a deduction. 

 

_Have nightmares. You cry out in your sleep._

“Excellent guess, that ,”  John muttered under his breath, only half-listening. Where were his trousers? 

He heard rather than saw Sherlock sniff in annoyance at the brushing off, and John because suddenly quite aware of the taller man directly behind him, bare and radiating off heat. John stiffened when the rumbling voice spoke, not singing but a soft utterance of his name that made something that was clenched tightly beneath his ribs slowly unfurl with a nameless emotion.

_“John.”_

The Selkie breathed along the back of John’s neck, and his voice was a caress on his mind.  John’s restless fingers stilled, and blue eyes closed momentarily as  he recollected the dredges of his nightmare unwillingly. The taste of the Selkie’s lips on his own tingled, an echoing memory or half-vision that flitted behind his closed lids. 

John’s throat felt tight. 

“You were there. You _saw_ ,” he whispered aloud. Sherlock did not respond, but the language barrier between them, as well as the years apart felt thinner suddenly, the Selkie’s long fingers cautiously brushing just over the swell of John’s hip. Sherlock’s hands seemed to reach for him as if he were made of spun glass, and for a moment John envisioned clearly spinning around, showing the Selkie that he was anything but and capturing his lips with his own. 

 

The sound of the door opening downstairs, followed by Mrs Hudson’s questioning _Yoo-hoo_ broke the spell. 

“John, dear? I hope you don’t mind, I let myself in! Your grandmother always left a key under the potted plant …” she called from the bottom of the stairwell. Instantly John jerked away from Sherlock’s presence, turning and hissing at him to hide, his hands making a shooing motion. Seeming to understand the Selkie moved with startling quickness, making to curl up in the shadow between the bed and the wall. He was careful not to touch the patch of sunlight that shone a sliver along the hardwood floor. 

 

John could feel those jewel-toned eyes on the back of his neck as he drew in a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable conversation ahead with his neighbour. He schooled his expression into something he hoped looked friendly enough, and by the time he was at the door, he could almost pretend that he couldn’t feel Sherlock’s stare, burning into the crescent scar of his trembling hand. 

“Be right down, Mrs Hudson! Just a minute!”  he called. 

 

****

“I came to tell you, you might end up with the police on your doorstep in a few days.” John watched as Mrs Hudson fluttered about the cabin like a colourful, restless bird, tutting and cleaning the dishes and the books that he had left out the past couple of days. She had come in with a wave and a basket of delicious-smelling apple tarts, setting the package upon the chair John had politely offered in favour of hovering over the state of his  living room . 

 

Drinking his tea quietly and resisting the urge to look guilty, John tilted his head to the side in question.

“Is this about the missing children? Did they find anything out yet?”

“Not yet,”  the elderly woman sighed grimly. There was a fretful expression in her dark eyes, and her gnarled fingers fidgeted with the pearls at her neck. “It’s been several days and the poor White family are already starting to lose hope, poor things. I can’t imagine how they’re feeling.” She looked at him with watering eyes. “We haven’t had a crime like this since I was a little girl, with that Powers boy. I forget his name now… Carlos or Carl…”

 

She hovered over the fireplace mantel for a moment longer, before her thin shoulders slumped and she looked over at John in a helpless sort of way. 

“People around here… they get suspicious, and I’m sorry on their behalf. You might find with your recent arrival the people of the village, well… Old people talk, you know.” 

John swallowed at the implication in the woman’s words, and he set his tea down into its saucer with a small clatter. A small trickle of incredulity trickled down his spine, and he looked at her. 

“You can’t… You don’t believe them, surely-”

“No.” Mrs Hudson denied it firmly, her lips pressed together into a hard, white line. Her fingers tightened in her lap as she turned to him, fingers twisting in the hem of her cardigan. “No, John. I don’t. I’ve known you since you were little more than a baby, and you’d never be… it’s not in your nature.” She came forward then, patting his hand gently. Her voice dropped a note regretfully. “People talk though, be prepared for it. I do what I can, but…there’s no lead yet.” 

 

She shrugged, and John understood despite himself. He knew how easy it was to get a rumour rolling, once the seed of doubt had been planted in people’s minds. He sipped his tea, feeling a shudder rolling down his spine. Maybe it was the way the wind creaked through the old cabin like a wandering banshee, but the once merry environment was swiftly turning cold and tense. 

It was broken after a moment by Mrs Hudson’s voice, clearly trying to change the topic to something cheerier. 

“Are you settling in alright, then? Your grandmother and I, we always did love having you and Harriet down here. She always said it was the best part of the season, getting to see her grandchildren.”

John cocked a small smile at the old woman, his shoulders relaxing minutely. He thought of Sherlock, so far silent upstairs, and resisted the urge to tell Mrs Hudson that he was remembering more of his childhood than he probably would have wished for. 

 

“The house creaks at night, but other than that it’s good. Quiet.” 

“Quiet never seemed to suit you well, dear.” Mrs Hudson observed rather keenly from where she stood, and John set his cup down with a small, reluctant smile. A part of him suddenly and fiercely loved this old woman, who reminded him in so many ways of his grandmother. Mrs Hudson had a certain all-seeing kind of nature, yet unlike other people who shared this quality (namely: Sherlock) it was comforting, rather than disconcerting.

“No, I suppose you’re right. The truth is, while the house is quiet… I’ve got a lot of rather noisy thoughts on my mind.”

“Ah, yes. The unquiet mind. Your grandmother used to joke it was a family trait.” 

John smiled, drumming his fingers against the  armrest of his chair. All of a sudden, the compulsion to tell the old woman before him about Sherlock, about the craziness that  had become John’s life recently washed over him like a wave. He had to physically bite his cheek to refrain, and as he did, something knowing sparked in Mrs Hudson’s deep brown eyes. 

“Yet you seem to be troubled not just by your thoughts, my boy. You do know you can talk to me,  right,  John? Your grandmother was my friend… and you might as well be my own grandson.”

 

As if on cue, there was a sort of skittering noise from the second floor, the distinctive creak of feet upon old floorboards. It would have gone dismissed perhaps, had it not been for John’s instinctive reaction to jerk his chin upwards, listen for further sound. When Sherlock moved, generally, it meant that the Selkie was on the prowl for something. 

Seeing his reaction, Mrs Hudson frowned. Her voice held in it a note of perplexion.

“Is someone here, John?”

 

The  man found himself saved from replying, as in the next instant, he felt a pair of eyes glued to the back of his neck, hidden in the shadow of the stairwell. No doubt, the Selkie had been lured down by the prolonged conversation, as well as the wafting smell of baked goods in the air. John cleared his throat awkwardly, praying to God that Sherlock had at least the decency to put on some trousers.

“Mrs Hudson… there’s someone I’d like for you to meet…”

 

****

There was something both charming and deeply unsettling about how well Sherlock took to Mrs Hudson, considering his so far incredibly suspicious nature. Then again, John was willing to concede that the good behaviour was possibly on account of the fact that the Selkie had already discovered that niceties seemed to earn him sweets. 

 

Sherlock had a ferocious  sweet tooth it seemed, and he sat himself on the floor without preamble in front of the basket of  appletarts . John watched in amusement as the Selkie, who so far had barely touched most foods of nutritional value now greedily swallowed the pastries, occasionally pausing only to breathe or make chirping, appreciative sounds in Mrs Hudson’s direction. 

 

As for the old woman herself, John had thought that some convincing would be needed on his part to have her believe his tale of Selkies. To his surprise however, Mrs Hudson hadn’t even needed to be told. One look at Sherlock, dressed in a tatty blue  bathrobe and soft trousers and the woman had gone very still, peering at the man who stood unusually still at the bottom of the stairs with a hand pressed to her lips. Something strange shone in her gaze, and she looked between John and Sherlock for a long time, seeming unable to find the words for what she wanted to say. John could  sympathise , his own throat feeling uncharacteristically tight. A small part of him, admittedly the more irrational side, had worried up until this point if he had just been losing his mind. It wouldn’t have surprised John to learn that no one else had been able to see Sherlock, and yet somehow the confirmation that the Selkie was here, and real, sent something warm twisting into John’s insides. He explained his story to Mrs Hudson, even as he took in the way she looked at the Selkie, as if he were a walking, breathing legend come to life. 

 

Mrs Hudson not only saw Sherlock, she couldn’t seem to stop being awed by him. Her dark eyes took in the lean of the creature’s spine, watching raptly as the Selkie seemed to consider another one of her tarts with a critical eye, before stuffing its entirety into his mouth.

“I’ve grown up by these waters, but I’ve never caught glimpses of his kind. He’s just like the myths I grew up hearing – pale skin and odd eyes.”

 

She marvelled openly, and seeming to pick up on the hushed tone of her voice John watched in amusement as the Selkie seemed to preen, perking up like a vain peacock. Those sharp blue eyes glittered like sea glass as Sherlock looked up at Mrs Hudson through his lashes, the tart crumbs around his mouth only taking away from his natural grace minutely. John privately thought it rather unfair, how Sherlock could look so put together even when in pyjamas and eating. 

Mrs Hudson, seeing the reaction to her words seemed to suppress a small smile. “He’s certainly something out of a fairy tale, what with those looks.”

Sherlock, head tilted as if listening to the woman, thoughtfully repeated to himself.

_“Fae-ree tale.”_ John wondered if the Selkie was saying the word for the sake of learning, or if the glint in his eye meant he was hopeful for more praise. 

 

“He more or less stumbled into my life, really. I can’t make him leave, not without taking me with him, so we’re currently stuck at a bit of a stalemate,”  John explained, shaking his head. “It’s… an adjustment period, right now. He doesn’t seem to pick up much English.” Sherlock, seeming to pick up on his tone stopped his preening to glare. His look seemed to  say, _How dare you say such things to a prince? I am_ ** _perfect._**

 

“I’m sure I have some children’s books on language in storage,”  Mrs Hudson exclaimed. “I could run them over to  you,  dear, and he could use them as long as he likes.” 

John smiled a bit, and saw that the old woman seemed to already be doting on the Selkie as easily as she had done with him and Harry as children. It seemed rude though, to take such advantage of her kindness. He tried to deflect, waving her offer away. 

 

“Mrs Hudson, you’d be a saint to do such things, but I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Nonsense, dear ,” she refuted him firmly, moving with a tentative hand to brush along Sherlock’s curls. It was a move that made something curiously jealous twist in John’s insides, the fact that the Selkie seemed to have let down the entirety of his guard around the woman in favour of acting like an overgrown feline. The ease in which he nuzzled her palm made John forget for an instant just how lethal Sherlock could be. “I can imagine your Selkie’s struggling enough, smart as he seems. With a communication barrier, this whole situation is a thousand times more complicated than it has to be.” She laughed as Sherlock wordlessly held out the now-empty basket to her, eyes large and deceptively pleading. The crinkles along the old woman’s eyes when she smiled made John’s own lips have to fight a grin.

 

“You’re very lucky, you  know,” Mrs Hudson said more seriously, fixing  John with a considering look. “Not many can claim to survive an encounter with the magical side of this land, and yet you, John Watson, appear to have an incredible luck.”

John, feeling as though the  Mark  on his wrist was tingling, found his gaze irrevocably drawn to Sherlock’s. The Selkie was regarding him carefully from the floor, his dark curls a halo about his head in the shade of the other chair. John watched as those blue eyes, blinking slowly up at him seemed to momentarily soften, and a strange vulnerability  came over the Selkie as he realised his own position, the lack of grace in it. Sherlock huffed, looking away, but John found he didn’t  mind much. If the hidden flush along the Selkie’s neck was any indication, John could guess exactly why he hadn’t met his end yet, dealing with magic.

“I wouldn’t call it luck, really ,” he admitted very quietly. 

 

After a moment, Mrs Hudson smiled in agreement. She too  looked at  the Selkie out of the corner of her eye, watching as he stood and brushed himself free of crumbs, cool  as stone once more. Cheerily she picked the basket up, nodding in agreement even as her words kept John’s observation a secret.

“I’ll get you your children’s books, dear. For now though, I think I’d fancy a cuppa.”


	22. Water Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there ^_^ I haven't updated in a while, but that would be due to moving around a fair bit :) I'm now in Canada. I hope you enjoy the new chapter, as a new character is introduced. 
> 
> Thank you as always to my beta, [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for helping me make this fic into something legible.

 

 

_ I try desperately to run through the sand _   
_As I hold the water_   
_In the palm of my hand_   
_Cause it's all that I have_   
_And it's all that I need and_   
_The waves of the water_   
_Mean nothing to me_ **_-_ Addict With A Pen,Twenty One Pilots**

 

Sherlock took to language, well, rather like a fish took to water. Within days of Mrs Hudson dropping off the children’s books, John found the Selkie wandering about the cabin. Sherlock would mutter as he walked, pointing out things and naming them in English, pleased with himself  when John would nod in agreement and sulky when he was incorrect. The Selkie threw himself into mastering the language, and though in his mind English was a rather contradictory dialect, the promise of being able to better communicate with  John fueled Sherlock’s drive.

 

It was by week two that John found Sherlock  beginning to speak in sentences, and as broken as they were, it was clear that the Selkie had a rather large intellect despite his ignorance. He also had a bad habit of stealing John’s medical textbooks from college, absorbed with interest in the human body and its innermost workings. John found himself frequently having to answer rather difficult questions with limited vocabulary, and it seemed that Sherlock held no compunction about what was decent to ask. 

“What are “Platelets”, John?”

“Are Selkies “mammals” too?” 

“What is “masturbation”? John? Your face is turning red. Are you  okay ? _John-_ ”

 

More than once the army doctor considered how he had taken the gift of silence for granted, before all of this began. 

There was also the issue of Sherlock being incredibly anxious about keeping John in his sight. The Selkie had a (perhaps somewhat justified) fear that if  John strayed too far he might try to run away and break their deal. This meant that after two weeks the fridge was beginning to look pretty barren, even with Mrs Hudson’s occasional gifts of baked goods. 

 

John knew he’d eventually have no choice but to go into town to the store, yet he also knew that Sherlock, though improving rapidly at shamming being Human, was still nowhere ready to be ogled by a bunch of gossipy townspeople. He would have to be left behind, and the one time that John had tried to explain this, the Selkie had thrown a fit. 

 

Sherlock had no problems with using his body as a physical block from the front door, and in spite of his good behaviour lately did not hesitate to hiss menacingly at John in warning. Even a few days ago, the act would have put John on edge, but as it stood he’d been snarled at enough that he’d built a bit of a thick skin in response to it. 

John crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Sherlock while he waited patiently for the Selkie to finish his posturing. 

 

“I need to go out, Sherlock. At least if you still want toast and jam in the morning, which you seem to have been enjoying.” 

“Don’t  want,” Sherlock hissed without much sympathy, settling down to sit cross-legged in front of the door as if he thought his bodyweight might stop John from leaving. Like a moody child he scowled up at John, even if the idea of there being no more jam made the Selkie equally distressed. 

 

 

John sighed, the sound long and drawn out. In truth, the Selkie’s moods were beginning to wear on him. He hadn’t been left alone now for more than an hour at a time, and though Sherlock was surprisingly not the worst roomate he had ever had, the forced captivity was beginning to make him feel like a prisoner inside of his own home. 

“We need food, Sherlock. _Real_ food. Not just crackers and the pastries that Mrs Hudson brings. I haven’t had a fruit or even _meat_ now for three days.” 

 

A vague flicker of comprehension appeared in Sherlock’s expression, vaguely panicked and guilty. It was clear that the Selkie hadn’t really noticed the decline of the pantry, an issue that made sense considering the fact that Sherlock seemed perfectly content to subsist off of sugary sweets. Slowly, the Selkie tried to find some kind of compromise to the situation, it clear that Sherlock didn’t want John to leave, but that he knew he couldn’t force the  man to go if he was determined. 

John could sense the waning determination, and gentled his tone. 

“I’ll only be gone for a small while, and while I’m gone I can see if Mrs Hudson can come visit you. I might even be able to get you some more advanced books?” 

 

The Selkie grumbled a small noise that sounded vaguely like a small agreement, though Sherlock still looked largely unhappy as a whole with the situation. He kept chancing a glance towards the lock on the door, as if he could somehow cast a spell upon it so it would not open without his consent. John reflected on the fact that knowing the Selkie, he’d try it if he thought that he wouldn’t brain him over the head in retaliation. John, sighing through his teeth crouched so that he was down on the Selkie’s level. It was an instinct that John’s didn’t wholly understand, to reach out and brush Sherlock’s dark curls away from his eyes, making sure that he was paying attention. 

 

The Selkie’s eyes were twin points of heterochromia that shifted like the ocean, wild and staring up at him like he was half afraid this would be the last time he’d see him. John realised that Sherlock in many ways was rather helpless in this situation, unable to make John stay but uncertain as to whether or not John would return. John certainly hadn’t made much progress in really proving that he was trustworthy, other than making sure that the Selkie’s coat, while hidden away, was well taken care of. 

 

He considered the options for a moment, not even realising that Sherlock’s eyes had slid to half-mast, the Selkie leaning into John’s touch with a small rumble of unbridled pleasure. When he moved his fingers away, Sherlock watched his hands as if he was half-tempted to pull them back. 

John reached into his pockets, fumbling for something in particular. After a moment, he hummed in satisfaction, holding up a small prize. Sherlock blinked at the small, rounded button that was placed into the palm of his hand, peering at it closely as if it might contain some kind of riddle. 

“That fell off of my favourite  jumper,” John confided to him with a smile .  “Just this morning, actually. I never go anywhere without that jumper, and you can’t wear it without the buttons. Do you… do you understand?” Sherlock looked at John’s grin, warm and bright like the sun and gentle. He looked at the Selkie, and Sherlock for the first time thought he could catch a glimpse of the boy, the kind one that he had gotten attached to in a moment so long ago. 

After a moment, Sherlock nodded. He thought he understood. After all, what had first drawn him to John in the first place, was that seemingly endless well of delicious, lingering loyalty. 

 

Just once, he allowed himself to flick his gaze towards John’s carotid. Whether he longed to kiss or to consume, even he wasn’t quite sure. 

 

****

There was a market in town, and not so much had changed that John struggled to find it. He left Sherlock in Mrs Hudson’s care, confident that after an hour or two of shopping and some personal space, he’d be feeling as right as rain. 

 

The weather didn’t seem to share his sentiment. Iron-grey clouds rolled in from the sea, and the sun seemed to be blotted out by their presence. John drove with his headlamps on, peering through fog that settled in thickly and turned houses and street signs to smoke. He pulled eventually up against a kerb in town, parking his car and looking towards the small collection of shops and stalls offering goods for sale. 

 

John could admit that he had more than just a little bit of PTSD, but he thought in this case he was being less than hypervigilant and more aware of the stares he was receiving. Small towns tended to pick out new faces, and indeed it seemed as he approached more than a few people were giving him less than polite stares. He was used to talking, used to the feeling of being a bug under a microscope. Yet John was not prepared for the hostile edge the sleepy town of his childhood had seemed to have taken overnight. Shopkeepers glared at him when he came into their stores to buy fruits and veg, and elderly women clicked their knitting needles as they rocked in their chairs outside their homes in warning as he passed by. John hunched his shoulders against their scrutiny, reminding himself that this wasn’t Afghanistan. There was unlikely to be any rifles, pipe bombs or violence of any kind. Just gossip. 

 

It was an airy, female voice that finally chanced to speak with him, coming from behind the cashier of a glass-crafting shop (John had been considering purchasing something for Mrs Hudson in thanks). 

“So, you’re the Witch’s grandson.” 

John’s chin jerked upwards, and he found a smiling woman leaning against the countertop. Her hair was blonde, cropped towards her chin, and her blue eyes gazed at him mischievously from where she stood. 

“Pardon?” John asked blankly, because truthfully he didn’t really understand. He clutched at the small, sea glass pendant he had been considering, unsure of the woman’s intent. She was quite pretty, but that didn’t stop John from regarding her with suspicion. Twice already, he had been spat at since entering the town. 

“Old McNeil: The Water-Witch. She lived out on the beach? It’s why the entire town’s looking at you so strangely, especially given the circumstances. Missing children make people anxious, in these parts.” 

 

John listened to the woman’s crisp British accent, his chin lifting defiantly. To hear his grandmother’s last name used in such a way sent an unexpected wave of anger through him. Yet she did not seem to mean it unkindly, instead the woman seemed to speak of John’s grandmother as if she were a faerie tale. Or perhaps, a legend. 

“You’re from  London,” John murmured instead, watching as the woman’s grin grew wider with approval. She nodded, a sharp jerk of her chin even as she drummed her hands against the countertop. 

“Grew up there for years, originally from this town, though. Bit of an outsider too, in a way. People don’t like it when you decide to move away, even if you come back.” 

 

John softened, some of his guard lowering in spite of himself. It was strangely comforting to hear his own accent reflected back at him, the familiar rhythm of language somehow so removed from anything magic or unearthly. Something in his shoulders must have relaxed, because the woman held out her hand to shake, warmth in her tone as she introduced herself. 

“I’m Mary. Mary Morstan.” 

After a moment, John took it. 

“John Watson. Grandson to Eva McNeil.”

He smiled, and in return Mary invited him to lunch after her break. 

 

****

John discovered that flirting was a sort of rusted habit of his, temporarily put into disuse since he’d been shot and left with little money and even less self-confidence. Now old manners came back to him like a trickling tide, small things like _offer a chair_ or _pay for coffee._

 

Mary for her part didn’t seem to particularly mind if he was a bit clumsy and a little overeager for human companionship. In fact she seemed to find him a bit charming, if not interesting. She leaned over the latte in interest as they got to know one another, earrings and a bottle-green necklace shimmering in the pallid fluorescent light of a nearby cafe. 

 

“I visited here all the time as a  kid,” John explained, sipping his coffee and attempting to keep the conversation light. “After I was… well after I left the army, thought it might be best to go back to my roots. My grandmother’s will only really made it a solid plan, in the end.”

Mary hummed, stirring her drink with a spoon. She nodded in understanding. 

“I can relate. I came back here because I found the city stifling. So much life… but there’s an appeal to being out here. It’s… quiet, and the outside world almost seems to forget this town.” 

 

“It’s a bit like the Hotel  California,” John joked .  “We both checked out… yet I never could quite get this place out of my mind.” _More like couldn’t get Sherlock out of his mind._

Mary laughed brightly. 

“Don’t I know the  feeling,” she replied ruefully. “It’s like a song. You hear it once and you’re inevitably hooked.” 

“My grandmother used to call it the “Song of The Sea” ,” John  murmured. He stared into the depths of his coffee, listening to the faint hum of the Bond with Sherlock he usually preferred to ignore. It was a melody, the faintest, mournful echo of someone searching for him. Before all of this mess, John had merely thought it to be his own loneliness, refracted inside of himself. 

 

Mary’s eyes narrowed at him keenly.

“Now there’s an old legend I haven’t heard the name of in a _long_ time. “Song of The Sea”, as if the ocean is a woman that calls to creatures of land and flesh.” She tilted her head in consideration “What was it like? To live with your grandmother, I mean. My mum used to scare me away from her and Mrs  Hudson – said they were witches and dabbled in black things. Not that I’d believe that now.” 

 

“She was… well, one of the brightest people I knew, back then ,” John , after a pause of consideration, admitted. He took a considerable swig of coffee before continuing, using it as fortification. “My mum used to take my sister and  me down here for  holidays . I never really noticed anything “witchy ”, though . Except… my grandma always had these fantastic stories. Selkies, Kelpies and Fae… you name it and she had a tale or two. In that way, I thought she was magic.”

John felt the tips of his ears redden a bit at the memory of how he used to follow her around, as trusting as a duckling chasing after its mother. Suddenly the coffee on the back of his tongue tasted bitter with regret as he sighed. 

“I messed it all  up,  though. Ended up in the hospital from an accident one summer and my mother flipped. Never saw my grandmother again. When I was old enough to go myself, I always avoided it. Too many memories.” 

 

“You miss her ,” Mary said softly, and it was not a question. It didn’t really have to be, John supposed. His left hand was already trembling with the memory. He moved it from the tabletop to his lap, fingers curling tightly into a fist. To his surprise, Mary didn’t comment on the action. She looked at him carefully and John found that instead of the  much hated pity he expected, Mary looked at him as if he was more than a tired old soldier sent home before his prime. 

 

“I always thought stories had a power. Maybe in that way, she was magic.” Mary drank the last dregs of her coffee before speaking again, letting John collect himself a little. Her voice was warm, and in return John felt something in his own chest thaw. He grinned, and suddenly he knew he didn’t want this to be just one coffee date. Was it even a date? Or had John actually managed to find a friend outside of his war buddies? 

 

The smile vanished then, because as usual when romantic attachments became a prospect, inevitably Sherlock’s face appeared in his mind. He suddenly realised the lateness of the hour. The Selkie would be getting restless. Night always made Sherlock want to roam (and why did the thought of Sherlock disappearing back into the ocean send a peculiar twisting in John’s sternum?). As if sensing the change of mood, Mary stood. 

“I have to  go,” she confessed, lifting her bag onto her shoulder “But I would like to see you again.” The glass necklace at her throat glittered as she leaned into John’s space, quickly taking a pen from her bag to write out a phone number. John took it, folding it carefully before placing it in his pocket. 

Mary’s hand brushed John’s shoulder before she left, her voice hopeful.

“See you on Friday? I’m off work.” 

“ Friday,” John agreed, and for the first time since being sent home from the war, he actually found he meant it. 

 

****

Sherlock in the meantime had watched the sun sink low in the sky for the better part of an hour, anxiously shifting by the door as he watched the streaks of red and aubergine cloud eventually fade to grey. With the coming of evening the cabin had begun to cool, and Mrs Hudson had set up a small fire in the hearth, which now crackled away merrily as a cheery counterpoint to the  Selkie’s  bleak mood. 

 

John should have been back by now, and until the sun set fully Sherlock was forced to sit and _wait_ for him until he returned. It was utterly _hateful._ What if something had happened? What if his John was hurt? What if he had decided to just _not return?_ Both thoughts Sherlock couldn’t much bear to reflect upon, and so he settled for sulking by the door to show his malaise. He refused all of Mrs Hudson’s attempts to distract or cheer him up, the old woman tutting as the  Selkie even refused his favourite treat: strawberry scones. 

“Come now, Sherlock ,” the old woman soothed, patting the  Selkie on the arm like she would if she had ever had a son. “John will be back soon, don’t you fret.” 

 

The  Selkie sniffed derisively. He was not _fretting._ He was merely aware of the dangers of being on land. The ocean was one thing, it could be dark and filled with creatures that would make the average human wet themselves with fear. Yet all of them were avoidable, if not something Sherlock had learned to deal with. Here in this strange world of wooden homes and sharp stone and two-leggeds, who knew what was out there?

 

As if sensing the dark turn to his thoughts, Mrs Hudson sighed. She set down the knitting she had been about to take back up, rising to shuffle over to the front door again. Her voice was kind. 

“Why don’t you go for a swim? I’m sure John won’t mind it if you need something to distract you, and goodness knows you’re likely the most dangerous thing in these waters.” She did know at least how to stroke the  Selkie’s ego. Sherlock couldn’t help but puff a little bit with pride. Seeing the reaction, the old woman smiled. “That’s a dear. Go on then and have some fun.” 

 

Sherlock, after a moment of deliberation complied. With the sinking of the sun and the covering of darkness, he rose to his feet. The  Selkie all but ran down to the beach after neatly folding the human clothes he had been wearing all throughout the day, placing them on the wooden porch outside. Like shedding a well-worn mask, Mrs Hudson thought with a small and unbidden chill. She wondered to herself if John knew exactly what he had summoned, agreeing to a  Selkie’s whims to woo him. Sherlock could look human, could _act_ it if given a little time and some coaching. Yet in the moonlight the  Selkie was a portrait of a hunter. 

 

Mrs Hudson watched as Sherlock disappeared into the waves, the wind howling and rattling the windowpanes of her friend’s old home.


	23. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, so this took a while to get out. Apologies, midterms are a bitch to handle. ;A;  
> But to make it up to you, in this chapter we get a look at a new character~~ and also a giggle or two at the image of a seal detective :P
> 
> As always, many thanks to my fantastic beta, [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) . You make this work into something enjoyable to read ^_^

 

 

 _But I try my best_  
_And all that I can to_  
_Hold tightly onto_  
_What's left in my hand_  
_But no matter how_  
_How tightly I will strain_  
_The sand will slow me down_  
_And the water will drain_ **\- Addict With A Pen, Twenty One Pilots**

 

The sun was well on its way to setting by the time John was driving home. It painted the sky firey red and mellow gold, and made the road hard to look at directly with its brightness. His mind was preoccupied as he drove, filled with the events of the past few hours.

Mary had been nice, and part of John had been drawn to that simple kindness like a thirsty flower reaches for rain. It was a little pathetic, really. He hoped he hadn’t come across as completely lonely and pathetic. He could need a friend, out here. Well, a friend outside of kindly old women and occasionally murderous Selkies.

 

The thought of Sherlock made John frown in consideration. It would be dark by the time he returned, and true to the creature’s nocturnal habits, Sherlock would likely wish to go outside. Yet the recent reports of disappearances made the woods that John passed on his way home seem eerie, and there was a prickling of unease steadily working down his spine. The night was beginning to feel unsafe, despite the fact that John had quite literally one of the best protective measures habitually glued to his side as of late.

 

John had a feeling that Sherlock’s presence would be enough to ward off anything menacing lurking in the waters. At least, he hoped. From the deep, silvery scars marring Sherlock’s body, he couldn’t help but guess there were occasionally creatures in the deep that even Selkies feared.

He drove a touch faster, knowing that Sherlock would be impatient to return to the water. Despite his reservations, John still held some fear that the Selkie of his childhood would go and vanish, either by choosing to leave his seal pelt behind or by some other darker means.

 

The cottage was a dark silhouette by the time John arrived, and the stars had just begun to bleed through, bright pinpricks of light shimmering in the sky. Like a glowing tapestry, they illuminated the darkness. John stood for a moment at the side of his car, just appreciating their clarity compared to their duller, city-bound shine that he was accustomed to.

 

He walked along the dirt road, ears picking up tell-tale splashing sounds coming from the shore. True to his predictions, Sherlock was a sleek knifepoint in the water, dark curls slicked back so that the angles of his face appeared razor-sharp.

The Selkie made a chirping noise of greeting upon seeing John’s form approach the water, drawing closer to the rocky shore so that the water sluiced down his shoulders and hips.

 

“John!” Sherlock greeted enthusiastically. The Selkie seemed unconcerned with his nakedness as usual, holding in cupped hands what appeared to be some kind of crab. He presented it eagerly to his Mate, making a few garbled sounds that in his excitement he didn’t bother to translate into something John could comprehend.

John couldn’t help but smile at the Selkie’s enthusiasm, coming to sit at the shoreline to take his shoes off and relax. The groceries in the car could wait for now, he thought.

 

Sherlock drifted onto the shore with his crustacean prize, long limbs dripping saltwater. He sat beside John, uncaring of the sand and rocks. His delicate fingers thumbed over the crab’s rust-brown shell, and he introduced the creature to John with utmost seriousness.

“Bluebell. She’s a brown crab, or _Cancer Pagurus._ ” John arched a brow, looking at the crab’s beady black eyes. The creature shuffled in Sherlock’s hands with utmost trust, not pinching the Selkie nor harming it in any direct way. It seemed perfectly content to sit in Sherlock’s overly large palms.

“Don’t you eat those?” John asked in honest curiosity. It seemed like a strange pet to have, given the Selkie’s somewhat _carnivorous_ nature.

Sherlock sniffed, bristling with indignation. He seemed rather offended at the implications.

“I wouldn’t eat _her,_ John. I _like_ Bluebell, she’s _interesting._ ”

“Ah, I see. You change your diet based on the things that interest you, then,”

John murmured, the response light, but the Selkie’s bright blue eyes seemed to jump to his face anyway. Sharp angles considered him carefully, and John felt as if he had suddenly wandered into the hairs of a crossfire. He swallowed, dropping Sherlock’s gaze. His skin felt hot, and without quite knowing why John felt as if he had just admitted some private fear to the Selkie. He stared at the ocean hard, voice a murmur. “That was uncalled for, I’m sorry.”

A stretch of silence drew between them then, only broken by discordant waves slapping against stone. Sherlock’s voice was measured and careful when he spoke, but there was an edge to his voice that John had only heard when he was trying very hard to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.

“You… fear me.”

John swallowed tightly. His left hand clenched and unclenched into a fist in his lap.

“I’m… afraid of a lot of things, lately. Afraid of you, afraid of sleeping… just… afraid," he admitted.

“You were hurt,” Sherlock murmured, blue eyes darting to John’s clothed shoulder, then away. The deduction didn’t surprise John, he knew the Selkie was not only tethered to him mentally to a certain extent, but extremely observant. “You were injured in a fight. Lots of them, with other Humans. They hurt you.” There was possessiveness in his tone, something akin to fury.

Despite the simplified wording, John still felt a hot spike drive itself into his chest at the reminder of his injuries. He grit his teeth against it, gaze darkening. War had changed him, turned him in many ways into a very angry person. It had made him prone to cynicism, and worsened his instinct to hold people back at arm's length. In many ways, it had killed his wonder, made him in so much like his own mother had been that it pained him at times to even look into the mirror.

He was _tired,_ so often. Tired of pretending to be a normal, functioning adult when most of the time he felt like a thousand glass shards kept under compression, waiting to blow.

John was broken from his trail of thought by Sherlock’s voice, softer than it had been before.

“Selkies are not the only things that kill in this world. Humans kill too, and yet you do not seem to fear them in the same way. To kill for food, or to protect what is mine, that is my instinct. Other Selkies protect their herds from outcasts, and their children from threats... Yet Humans… Humans kill for pleasure. Humans kill for the sake of killing. It is a concept I do not understand, and an ideal I have no wish to learn.”

Bluebell the crab scuttled out of the Selkie’s fingers then, apparently tiring of the conversation.

John watched the crab shuffle back towards the water without a care in the world, claws clicking excitedly. In the moonlight, her shell looked like a polished stone. She disappeared into the waves, letting the tide take her back out to sea. Sherlock watched her, and there was a fondness and curiosity in his eyes that John found he had come to recognise. It was so often directed at _him,_ despite the fact that he had so far done nothing to deserve it.

 

He felt a twisting of guilt in his gut then for treating the Selkie like a child, like a bad secret to hide from prying eyes. The sand shifted beneath John as he swallowed his reservations and leaned towards Sherlock’s side, letting their shoulders brush in silence now made companionable. He could feel exhaustion threatening to take hold of him, heavy like lead.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He felt that if he spoke any louder it would be an invitation to ruin the peace the two of them had found. The Selkie hummed, a soundless question. “Would you…” John bit his lip, hesitating before daring to ask, “Could you… could you sing something?”

For a moment, the Selkie didn’t reply, and John thought to himself that he had managed to ruin the moment after all. Yet after a second of thought, a humming sound filled the air, and John found himself smiling in surprised delight as the lyrics of the song were something recognisable. It seemed as if Sherlock did listen to the radio songs, he sometimes turned on, even if he acted as if they were distasteful.

 

 _“This is Ground Control_ _to Major Tom_

_You've really made the grade_

_And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear_

_Now it's time to leave the capsule_

_if you dare_

_This is Major Tom to Ground Control_

_I'm stepping through the door_

_And I'm floating_

_in a most peculiar way_

_And the stars look very different today...”_

 

Overhead, thousands of stars glittered like peculiar gemstones. John let his eyes drift shut, leaning against the Selkie’s shoulder. For the first time since he had returned from Afghanistan, he allowed himself to truly sleep with someone directly next to him.

Sherlock hummed away, his own face rather startled and young, painted in the moonlight.

Faint as a breeze, his nose caught the scent of perfume on John’s clothes. He would later learn the scent had a name, as so many strange things did in this Human world of metal and order disguising violence: _Clair de Lune._

 

****

Mrs Hudson left later in the evening, and John thanked her profusely for her help. She waved away any attempt at payment, merely instructing him to give her a call next time he needed her.

Bless the woman.

 

Sherlock for his part was unusually good about being quiet during the day time, allowing John to catch up on some much-needed rest. The Selkie busied himself flipping through some of the books John got him while he had been out, reading up on bees and honey and the effect a queen had on her hive. He was the eye of a small tornado, sitting cross-legged amidst half a dozen scattered books and paraphernalia in beach shorts and a comfortable white shirt.

John privately admitted to himself before he headed up to bed that the sight was rather sweet, in an odd way.

 

John slept soundly in his bed, and dreamed strangely enough of swimming in an ocean that was painted as a galaxy. Every time he dove into the water, he found himself swimming alongside someone different. Sometimes, it was his sister, other times Mycroft and his vaguely disapproving glare. Often, it was Sherlock.

He was woken rather abruptly, and it took John a moment to recognise the sound that had jostled him awake. It was a thumping noise, sharp and loud in the house, and it had roused him at nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.

Someone was knocking on the door.

John frowned, slowly sitting up. He kicked the blankets he had become nested in aside, beginning to make his way downstairs. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, and though it wasn’t uncommon for people in a small town just to stop by, he wasn’t so sure how they’d react to Sherlock’s presence. Mrs Hudson, if it had been her, would have just let herself in.

The knocking continued as he reached the bottom step, and John darted into the living room to see that Sherlock was eyeing the front door with a mixture of interest and apprehension. He darted his gaze towards John, head tilted in question. John in return shrugged, unable to give much by way of an answer.

“Stay here,” he murmured, making his way to the door.

There was only really one way to find out who it was, and if it was something dangerous he stood a better chance of talking himself out of the situation than Sherlock did.

John gripped the door handle, opening the door and seeing at first, no one. He blinked at the empty air for a moment, brow furrowing in confusion. _What…?_

A rather polite barking noise at his feet finally made his chin jerk downwards, and what John saw made a mixture of amusement and frank disbelief cross his features.

Staring up at him with liquid-brown eyes was a seal, patiently waiting as if to be invited into his home. The animal was stone-grey, speckles of silver dotting his back in a leopard-like pattern. Fully grown, its gelatinous body took up most of the porch, its tail thumping agreeably. It watched as John’s jaw fell open then shut with a snap, and an almost amused expression seemed to glint across its dog-like features as the man pressed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in frustration.

 _“Sherlock!”_ John barked demandingly.

There was a padding of bare feet, and hesitantly Sherlock approached behind him. Taller by a good head, the Selkie was able to peer over and around John’s shoulder, gaze calculating.

The seal upon seeing Sherlock’s face barked a cheerful greeting, seeming to almost bounce in place. Sherlock let out a chittering noise in return, face alighting in delighted recognition.

“Lestrade!”

John restrained a groan.

Great.

More Selkies.

 

****

Once inside and safe from the sun, Lestrade apparently had no qualms about shedding his seal pelt. John was surprised at much he was getting used to finding naked men in his home, and how little it really phased him. The army had taken away most of his shame, and this whole ordeal had seemed to finally kill it.

Lestrade tied his silvery pelt about his hips with ease, revealing a man with kind brown eyes and a shock of hair that matched the colour of his other form’s hide. He was clearly older than Sherlock by a number of years, but still had the strong arms and legs of a habitual swimmer. Similar to Mycroft, he wore a band that was wrapped about his upper bicep. In contrast, his was made of silver, and the stones that glinted from it were shimmery and reflective-opal.

John offered him a seat in the living room, as well as a cup of tea. He wasn’t really sure if Selkies had any cultural differences in terms of making a guest feel welcome, but he assumed since Lestrade didn’t complain that he wasn’t being too obnoxious.

Sherlock seemed ecstatic to have the other Selkie about, and it didn’t take John long to figure out why. Though he didn’t understand any of the barking language that Sherlock and Lestrade shared together, Sherlock seemed to quickly switch over to his crooning song so that John might better comprehend what was going on. Lestrade, after a moment’s pause, followed suit.

 

_Lestrade is my brother’s Mate, and also head of the guardsmen._

 

Sherlock explained to John as he sat down next to him, putting the prepared tea tray on the table. John hadn’t known that Selkies had any kind of sophisticated hierarchy besides a leader, and voiced as much. He watched Sherlock roll his eyes, huffing through his nose at the assumption good-naturedly. The Selkie reached for a teacup, filling it with an unhealthy amount of sugar and milk until its tone was his preferred off-beige.

 

**_My job is mostly just keeping the herd safe, and to make sure little ones don’t wander off._ **

 

Lestrade chuckled, his song low and rich in tone. It was friendly, and John instinctively found he enjoyed listening to it. Lestrade flashed him a modest smile, tentatively reaching for a tea cup of his own. The Selkie’s eyes flicked to Sherlock as he did so, automatically mimicking the way he held the cup with his own hands.

 

_Lestrade often comes to me when there is a mystery or an issue between opposing herds that his people cannot solve, which is to say that he comes to me very often. If they’re interesting, I help._

 

Sherlock explained, sipping his tea animatedly. He gestured with a lazy flick of one hand, brushing away the offended squawk that Lestrade made in response to being supposedly inept.

 

_Come now, you know it’s true._

 

**_You’re still a berk for phrasing it that way._ **

 

The older Selkie grumbled. He took a hesitant sip of his own tea, and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

John subtly pushed the sugar bowl closer towards Lestrade, even as he voiced aloud questions of his own.

“So you came here because you have a “case” of sorts, for Sherlock?”

The Selkies conferred a moment, Sherlock translating for John. Lestrade nodded when he understood, his eyes turning serious as he set his tea aside on the table. The older Selkie’s hands folded themselves between his knees as he leaned forward, looking to Sherlock with a vaguely pleading air.

 

**_Something’s been hunting in our waters. Something big and something hungry._ **

 

Beside him, John felt Sherlock’s shoulders round in subtle interest. Though the Selkie seemed to be deliberately trying to act disinterested, there was an analytical cast to his features. He cocked an eyebrow, long fingers tapping against his knee.

 

 _Hm, boring. There must be something more complex to it or you would have just patrolled the borders more and chased whatever it was out._ _Especially_ _Anderson delights_ _in that part of the job._

 

Something about that sentence sounded passive aggressive to John, but he didn’t have much time to reflect upon it. Lestrade merely winced, allowing the comment to hit its mark without retaliation. He continued with his proposal, his gaze earnest.

 

**_See, that’s the thing. We did a patrol, to see if we could catch whatever it was. Except there were no scents to follow, and witnesses all said the water got murky just before mass groups of fish vanished._ **

 

_Murky?_

 

**_Like octopus ink._ **

Lestrade confirmed with a small nod.

 

**_Except there’s no type of octopus that we know of in these waters that could eat that much in one go. Whatever it is, it’s either massive or it has help in eating its kill._ **

 

Sherlock smiled, and John noted that it was a faintly predatory thing. He watched as beside him the Selkie’s hands seemed to come up in an almost prayer-like fashion, tucking themselves just beneath his chin. Sherlock’s voice purred in satisfaction, looking at Lestrade with childlike approval at being given such a fascinating little puzzle to solve. His little melodious hum was only half-spoken for other’s benefit, his brain already beginning to whir with the possibilities splayed out before him.

 

_Now that is more interesting._

 

John felt a small chill begin to crawl up his spine.

 

****

 

Sherlock insisted on having Lestrade stay until nightfall, as he wanted the Selkie to lead him to the “scene of the latest crime” as he put it. This meant that Sherlock largely ignored the other Selkie, leaving John the task of playing host as he himself paced about the living room, wrapped up in his newfound project.

Ultimately, John invited Lestrade to join him in sitting at the kitchen table, Sherlock’s manic energy starting to wear thin on both of their nerves. It was there, seated across from the grey-haired Selkie, that John found himself being quietly assessed. He could feel Lestrade’s curiosity over him like a living thing, trailing from his blue-striped jumper to his comfortable jeans and socked feet.

He felt rather like a tourist attraction, and John did his best not to bristle under the Selkie’s stare, feeling as though he were being judged. Greg’s voice however, was kind when he finally chose to give voice to his queries.

 

**_So, you’re the Human that’s got my Mate swimming in frustrated circles, lately._ **

 

John frowned a little at the mention of Mycroft, though it wasn’t entirely intentional. It was hard not to frown, when his most vivid memory of the man was when he had attempted to drown him. Seeing his expression Lestrade laughed a little, seeming a little sheepish on his partner’s behalf.

 

**_My apologies if he came across as a little… frigid. For all of his grace in political situations… Mycroft has about as much tact as a pup trying to swim for the first time, in regards to issues where his brother is involved._ **

 

“To be honest, neither of them seem to be really… well-adjusted, in my mind,” John admitted. He wasn’t sure how much the Selkie could understand, but apparently his expression told some of his woes. Lestrade threw back his head and laughed openly at the Human, seeing his own suffering over the years reflected good-naturedly in another face.

Feeling relieved that his comment was not taken as an insult, John joined in on chuckling. The two of them felt immediately more comfortable in each other’s presence, both of them finding some common ground in the woes of dealing with the Holmes brothers. Lestrade wound up doing most of the talking due to the language barrier, but he was surprisingly quick about picking up John’s mood. He paid close attention to the man’s hands and expressions, guessing accurately what he was feeling.

 

**_You should have seen them when they were younger, honestly. The pair of them could barely stand to be in the same place together for more than fifteen minutes before it came to blows. The first time I ever saw Mycroft truly lose his shit was halfway through a meeting with an opposing herd. Sherlock had decided to crash it and just came waltzing through, trailing behind him a pod of angry dolphins that he had pissed off by pulling on their dorsal fins. The look on my Mate’s face!_ **

 

John could imagine the sour-lemon look that would have likely habituated Mycroft’s face and snorted, covering his mouth in vain with his hand to stifle the noise.

“Does Mycroft do the thing too, where he-” John broke off, listening for it. A moment later, he grinned in satisfaction, pointing in silence towards the living room and rolling his eyes amusedly. Sherlock’s voice could distantly be heard, muttering and cursing to himself in a combination of the Selkie’s language and John’s own.  

Lestrade began grinning like a loon. He seemed genuinely thrilled at the fact that he now had someone to commiserate with, and John couldn’t help but feel similarly. It took a special brand of patience to deal with a lot of the insanity that had happened so far in his life, and in truth he had almost resigned himself to handling it alone.

“It’s… it’s nice, this. Being able to… to talk about it to someone and have them not look at me like I’m completely mad. Everyone… Even when I was little… No one took me seriously about Selkies and myths and legends. Not since... my grandmother.”

 

The silver-haired Selkie hummed, unsure of what exactly John was saying. Yet he found himself understanding the man’s posture, some of his pained countenance. There was a melancholy that seemed to live in this Human habitually, and it came and went like a tide was prone to do. John appeared almost like a cracked seashell, held together but not entirely undamaged. Too much force, and he’d shatter, sharp pieces injuring you in the process.

In a quieter way, it was rather reminiscent of Sherlock.

Lestrade clicked his tongue against his teeth in thought, searching for a memory that might comfort John. This was rather difficult, as he was not entirely certain what upset the man in the first place. He could make an educated guess, as Mycroft had spoken (rather, ranted) about the deal that had been made between the three of them.

No one liked feeling caged, and that at least, Lestrade could empathise with.

 

**_When I first met Mycroft… It was at a meeting our parents had arranged._ **

 

John darted a glance at the Selkie, realising that Lestrade was sharing something that he must have felt to be rather private. He was hunched over his now-cold tea, dark eyes lost in thought. His hands cupped the mug, thumbs sweeping in self-soothing circles about the rim before continuing on.

 

**_I come originally from a different tribe of Selkies, from warmer waters. We migrate every year to the very edge of the Holmes’ borders, when the hunting and mating seasons change, respectively. I was only a kid then, really. I had the body of an adult but no concept of ruling over a tribe, or keeping shit together. Quite frankly, my older sister was first in line, so I didn’t think it’d be my problem._ **

 

The Selkie took a long, considering breath. His restless hand motions paused.

 

**_She died, during that migration. It happened during birth, her first pup. Kid didn’t make it either, and her Mate was completely torn up over it. Couldn’t function for months. I was suddenly next in line, and our tribe needed stability, to know I could step up to the plate if need be._ **

**_The Holmes tribe offered to merge our herds together, provided an alliance was made. My mother, my father… they couldn’t really refuse. They knew I had never been raised to lead and my father was already… he was starting to lose it a bit, mentally. He was just… old. So they had no choice._ **

 

**_I met Mycroft, then. I was fifteen years older than him, and yet I was supposed to treat him like a potential Mate! Then I met him. He was twenty five yet he acted like he was eighty, all “As you please”s and “Sir Lestrade”. He was a complete and total stiff._ **

 

John snorted a bit at the descriptor, Lestrade quirking him a smile. His gaze softened as he recalled.

 

**_Yet… For all of his coldness… I realised something. Mycroft was as afraid as I was about the whole arrangement, in likelihood even more so. He was being married off to a complete stranger, one who was older than him, and had absolutely no control over it._ **

 

**_Sure, could he have been nicer? Probably. But… I didn’t really mind his fussiness. I realised that in a way, I needed it. He needed me. We… we fit. Like two puzzle pieces coming together, when we both decided to actually knuckle down and work… we function. Even better, we’re a team._ **

 

John felt a tug in his stomach then, something tight and warm. Lestrade was no longer staring into his teacup like it held the world’s answers, instead choosing to regard the man before him evenly. The Selkie’s dark eyes were kind, and his voice had a comforting lilt to it.

 

**_Sherlock has never had to be part of a herd, or answer to anyone. In some ways, it was for the best. In others, it damaged something inside that kid. A Selkie doesn’t do well alone, John Watson. Much like a pup sometimes that has become lost or abandoned, we often die without our loved ones surrounding us. That, or we become cruel and unbending. You have to be, when alone._ **

**_I know you’re afraid of us. I can see it, when you think Sherlock’s not looking. But he always looks, and always notices. I understand that fear. You are surrounded by strangers, and worse surrounded by strangers who bring up painful memories._ **

 

**_But remember that in all likelihood, John Watson, you too dig up memories that Sherlock would much rather forget. You in the end can go back to humanity, if you so choose. For Sherlock… you are it. It is either win you over, or face a life of loneliness. Selkies only love once._ **

  
John, feeling all at once like he was too vulnerable and too exposed, was the first to look away. His voice was quiet, and it held in it a note of quiet desperation.

“I can’t… Even if I _wanted_ to… I’m _Human,_ Lestrade. The ocean… _I can’t._ ”

_Drown. All that will happen is that I’ll drown, and Sherlock will be alone again either way._

 

The Selkie didn’t seem to understand what John was saying. Biting his lip, John tried to pretend he wasn’t relieved in a way that the language barrier between them existed in that moment. After all, the only thing his grandmother’s old books seemed to all mutually agree upon was one solitary fact:

A Selkie too often forgot that their lover could not breathe in the water. Those who courted a Selkie, without fail found themselves drowned.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "The Selkie's Song"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697819) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




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